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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432796">When You Open Up Your Heart (and the Truth Comes Out)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped'>starclipped</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Courage to Start Over [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bottom Richie Tozier, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gift Giving, M/M, Part 2 in a Series, Reddie, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Romance, Smut, Stanley Uris Knows All, Two-Shot, eddie visits richie for the holidays, explicit language because they're both trashmouths, explicit sexual content in chapter 1, in this one, mentions of benverly and stanpat and bill/audra, richie is a closet romantic but so is eddie, the turtle (IT) HAS helped us, they are sappy old men and we love it, yes i'm writing a christmas fic in may i'm sorry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:14:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432796</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"But I thought you liked balls," he chirps, shifting the mint around in his mouth with a swirling tongue.</p><p>Richie winks when Eddie huffs and twists to face him, pointing a finger in his face to say, "Don't start. You know what I mean, they're the cheapest shit ever! Do you have stuff to make cookies?"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah. I thought of everything, your highness. Don't worry about it. I'll stay up late making 'em just for you."</p><p>"But I wanna help decorate."</p><p>Eddie's frown is precious. Richie pinches his cheeks—both sets—and nearly chokes when Eddie elbows him in the stomach. It's worth it.</p><p>"Okay, you can be my sous chef. Or, like, whatever the baking equivalent to that is. But only if you let me decorate Gingerbread Eddie. Oh, shit—Gingerbreddie!"</p><p>"Ugh. Please do not make that a thing. But alright, then I get to decorate gingerbread you."</p><p>[Or: Eddie visits Richie in December. Lazy holiday shenanigans ensue.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak &amp; Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Courage to Start Over [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Test Out Your Future</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><i>"when you close your eyes and go to sleep, and it's down to the sound of a heartbeat, i can hear the things that you're dreaming about when you open up your heart and the truth comes out."</i><br/>—talking in your sleep; the romantics<br/>(fic title taken from this song)</p>
</div>*bottom!richie does feature in this chapter. no smut in chapter 2*
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Richie is concerned. For his health, for his sanity, for his emotional well being.</p><p>It started the day he'd gone to pick Eddie up at the airport—well, realistically it started the day Richie Tozier first <em>met</em> Eddie Kaspbrak, but his <em>latest</em> meltdown is only eight days old, when the little shit had snuck up behind him at baggage claim to shout “HEY FUCKER” in his ear. Richie had, of course, reacted by screaming like a girl and dropping his phone, the back of his hand nearly colliding with Eddie’s nose. And his phone, of course, reacted by cracking like an unreliable piece of junk. <em>It’s an iPhone, Richie, what the fuck did you expect? </em>Eddie had sneered, though he looked slightly sheepish when he admitted he hadn’t thought that one through. The fact that Richie, for three whole days, got to roast a risk analyst for not analyzing a risk made the whole thing worth it. (Eddie pulling him into a searing kiss and mumbling about how Richie's stupidity was contagious had been a very close second.)</p><p>But even <em>that</em> whole ordeal hadn’t been as surprising as Eddie’s <em>appearance</em>, no sirree. Because the stubble he'd been sporting in November had since become a full-on beard, neatly trimmed but dark and full and <em>masculine, </em>and Richie has been in a constant state of arousal ever since. He's also been in a constant state of domestic bliss, which is somehow <em>more</em> embarrassing, but can he really be blamed? </p><p>They’ve hit the streets for a couple hours every day—not quite doing touristy shit because Eddie has deemed himself too good for that, being a <em>New Yorker</em> and all—but most of their time has been spent inside the house, battling it out in <em>Street Fighter</em> and singing at their top of lungs and arguing over whether or not they should binge <em>Snapped</em> or <em>Hell’s Kitchen</em> each night before bed.They’d even toom to filling every room with tacky last-minute Christmas decorations because the combination of their competitive natures wouldn't stand for being outdone by Bill and Audra’s gaudy vacation home in London. Richie was nearly strangled with tinsel three separate times. Life has never been better.</p><p>The <em>point</em>, however, is that Richie really thinks he might die before this visit is over. But damn it <em>all</em> if Bearded Eddie climbing him like a tree wouldn’t be the best way to go.</p><p>He still can't get over it, really. That Eddie is here, in Chicago, in what by all accounts would be considered Richie's home turf. In his actual <em>home</em>, no less; making everything brighter and louder and much, much better. <em>God</em>, he loves Eddie an obscene amount. It’s truly unquantifiable.</p><p>And Eddie seems to love him just as much, if the way he's been clinging to Richie since they dropped his train of luggage in the foyer is any indication, which is <em>insane</em>. Watching those big eyes go all goo-goo in the mornings and being on the receiving end of tender little smiles that hardly ever seem to go away,  not even during his usual manic outbursts, is a literal dream come true. It feels like a trick, sometimes, or a very nice dream. The smelly, ruined jacket at the back of his closet helps remind him that it isn’t.</p><p>But again, Richie is very, very concerned. How the fuck is he supposed to last until Christmas with Eddie all over him, all up in his space? Taking up half of his bed and lounging with his legs across Richie's lap on the sofa and helping him cook in the kitchen, although he mostly bitches and barely gets any chopping done? He cleans, too. Acting like the place isn't up to snuff when he'd never said anything bad about it during their many video calls before. Richie suspects the gesture makes him feel more at ease, that it's a way for him to leave his mark in some way, like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant. Whatever the case, Richie doesn't mind. Seeing Eddie take care of the house like it's already <em>theirs</em> is just another reason his heart feels ready to burst.</p><p>The boiling point came mere hours ago, after Richie had gotten home from a very fruitful shopping trip. He’d gone by himself to purchase last-minute gifts for everyone, mostly because he knew he’d waste hours trying to find the perfect surprise for Eddie, who had ventured out by himself the day prior to do his own hunting. Richie stampeded through the house, arms laden with bags, calling out for Eddie as he moved through the living room and past the kitchen, pausing when he got no response. Assuming Eddie was upstairs, Richie hopped down into the basement to look for some kind of cubbyhole to hide his goodies in, only to rear back with a shout when spotting a lone figure sprawled across the hammock.</p><p><em>It’s just Eddie</em>, his brain told him, a few seconds too late considering his exclamation had been startling enough to wake him. One leg jerked to the side to dangle off the hammock, the book he’d had laying against his chest falling to the floor with a <em>thud</em>. Eddie glared sleepily at him, frown looking more like a pout, hair mussed and clothing rumpled, fist coming up to rub at his mouth.</p><p>“<em>Richie, what the fuck?”</em> he’d groaned, voice pleasantly hoarse.</p><p>Richie pushed the merchandise behind his back, though Eddie had most likely already clocked it. At least he'd had the foresight to stick everything into unlabeled bags. He still had some work to do before his purchases were ready for presentation.</p><p>“<em>What-the-fuck, me? What-the-fuck, YOU! Why’re you hangin’ out down here like a fucking vampire, huh?”</em></p><p>Sitting up with a grunt and wince, Eddie yawned and said:<em> “Got bored waiting for you, thought I’d try this thing out. S’not bad.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, your drool kind of gave that away. You could've given me a heart attack, man.”</em>
</p><p>Richie’s chest had constricted when Eddie snuffled and stretched out, cream colored henley riding up to reveal smooth skin and a trail of dark hair.</p><p>“<em>Sorry.”</em></p><p>Richie’s shoulder slumped at that, shock quickly fading. He could feel himself beginning to smile when Eddie’s lids slipped closed, one cracking open a moment later to keep Richie in his sights, jaw cracking with another yawn.</p><p>“<em>You look like a kitten</em>,” he’d said. “<em>All cute and grumpy.</em>”</p><p>“<em>And you look like Big Foot’s cousin. Stop looming and c’mere.”</em></p><p>He nearly tripped over his feet in his scramble to get closer, hip brushing the support pole while his fingers danced up the taut fabric to rest against Eddie’s ankle. Eddie scooched to the side then, allowing Richie room to climb in, and although the hammock was designed to fit two people they still pressed as tightly together as they could, as they used to, limbs tangled and heads tilted. Their postures were a little awkward, neither of them fully into the habit of this type of casual physical intimacy yet, only having had doses of practice in August and November. The things they’d done thus far during this visit had all been sexual because, well, once they got in it they <em>really</em> got in it, with no room for doubt or Jesus.</p><p>There was something about <em>this</em>, though—settling into a shared lazy moment, rocking slowly thanks to Richie’s foot grazing the floor, listening to each other’s breathing and the muffled rumbling of the dryer in a connected room, that felt so cozy and affectionate and <em>personal</em>. Something that made Richie’s eyes prick with happy tears because he <em>still</em> couldn’t believe his luck.</p><p>Richie sniffled audibly, relieved when Eddie decided not to comment on his crazy emotions. His only acknowledgement had been in the way he’d tentatively placed a hand on top of Richie’s stomach, palm sliding up the front of his <em>I’m So Good Santa Came Twice</em> sweater to rest over his heart. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching his arm around to drag his fingertips through Eddie’s short beard.</p><p><em>“You keep doing that,” </em>he’d mumbled, gripping Richie’s wrist but not stopping him. “<em>Does it look bad?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Bad? No. No, no. Dude. It’s good. Really good.”</em>
</p><p><em>“Yeah?”</em> The pitch of his voice sounded almost hopeful. <em>“I wasn’t sure I could pull it off, but… you mean it?”</em></p><p><em>“Eddie. Eddie, you’re, like, you’re fucking </em>hot.<em> You always are but this is some next level bullshit.”</em></p><p>He'd huffed a laugh, shifting around until he could lean precariously on one elbow, using the hand on Richie’s chest to steady himself. His eyes crinkled and his lips stretched into a shining smile, thick brows sloping down to somehow look fond.</p><p>
  <em>“Is that why you’ve been popping five boners a day? Because of my beard?”</em>
</p><p>Richie’s face caught fire.</p><p>
  <em>“Shut up. I can’t help it, okay? I have a condition!”</em>
</p><p>His face scrunched for a moment, looking genuinely concerned as he asked, “<em>Is it Priapism? Are you in pain? I know you don’t have ED, but you have to be careful</em>—”</p><p>“<em>Jesus, Eddie</em>.” His laughter made the smaller man relax again. <em>“No, I don’t have… whatever you said. I’m just fuckin’ horny all the time. And we’re too old to go at it as often as my brain thinks we should, so I get these little half-chubs and</em>—<em>yeah, I was honestly hoping you didn’t notice.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Oh, I fucking noticed, Richie.”</em>
</p><p><em>“Well, sorry! It’s just, </em>e<em>ver since you got here it’s like I’ve been on a fucking coke binge.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Mm, not gonna ask how you know that.”</em>
</p><p><em>“Good call. But you get what I’m saying? I’ve been hopped-up on my favorite brand of Special K all week.” </em>Feeling bold, Richie had slapped Eddie’s ass, grinning when he jerked and snorted, pinching the slight paunch of Richie’s stomach in retaliation. Even in the dim light, the pinkness of his cheeks had not gone unnoticed.</p><p>“<em>That doesn’t even make sense when you consider what the effects of Ketamine actually are.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“It was a good pun and you know it.”</em>
</p><p>“<em>It was alright,</em>” Eddie admitted, sweeter and more subdued than usual. He rubbed his knuckles against his jaw, the sound of skin scraping against the coarse hairs making Richie shiver. <em>“You like it that much?”</em></p><p><em>“Yeah</em>,” Richie whispered, letting his head fall farther back and enjoying how Eddie’s eyes tracked the movement of his throat. “<em>Yeah, it really</em>—<em>uh.”</em></p><p>His words came to an abrupt halt when Eddie put a little more weight atop him, hooking his leg beneath Richie’s thigh so that the backs of their calves would touch, using that leverage to yank Richie’s legs apart. He was practically spread eagle (or as spread eagle as a double hammock would allow), and that—coupled with Eddie’s face being so close to his, the two of them sharing lidded eyes and accelerated heartbeats, breaths as warm as the air the heater was kicking out—made his insides jolt in excitement.</p><p>Then Eddie’s knee had grazed purposefully against Richie’s crotch, putting pressure on his rapidly hardening dick, and things got fuzzy from there.</p><p>“<em>Rich,”</em> he started to say, a little shy but mostly questioning, and Richie answered by grabbing the back of Eddie’s neck and hauling him in for a bruising kiss.</p><p>He’d been hard already, half delirious as they licked into each other’s mouths, pressing together like the desperate teenagers they never got to be, making up for lost time. Richie’s hands had gone up the back of Eddie’s henley, mapping the dips of his spine and the curves of his back, the dints above his ass, dragging his fingertips across smooth skin and ropy scars. He’d dared to go lower, tucking his knuckles into the pockets resting over Eddie’s backside, breath hitching when Eddie rucked up the hem of his sweater and undershirt to toy with his waistband and belt loops.</p><p>“<em>Fuck,</em>” he spat ever so eloquently, feeling staggered. His foot twitched against the floor, sending them swaying, making Eddie cling tighter and kiss rougher.</p><p>It was still tough to know where their boundaries were when comfort levels switched so often. Over these past few days Richie found himself bouncing between Total Sex Fiend and Blushing Virgin, and Eddie was much the same; jumping Richie at random intervals with a fire that never seemed to go out but turning coy and flustered whenever Richie found the courage to act first. And then there were times such as these, when they were on the same page, two lines meeting in the middle, dripping ink onto all the empty space.</p><p>“<em>Rich</em>,” Eddie said again, closer to a growl, pawing at his hip without settling.</p><p>“<em>I love you,”</em> Richie confessed in turn—although it wasn't so much of one these days, too well-known to be surprising but still just as shocking to say and hear on both sides—quick and breathy, gasping it against Eddie’s neck while nosing at the hair on his chin that managed to be less scratchy than anything Richie grew. He’d been finding it hard to do anything like this without letting Eddie know, each and every time, that he didn’t take anything they did at face value, that everything had a deeper meaning and Richie couldn’t keep it in. It was much too big for his oversized body. “<em>Jesus Christ, I love</em>—”</p><p>Eddie often attacked him mid-declaration, swallowing the words to soak them in, to sweat them out against the flat of Richie’s tongue, the tight grip of his hold. He didn’t always say it back, choosing instead to <em>show</em> it, making Richie weak and wobbly with actions that ranged from cleaning up around the house and wrestling around in the backyard to massaging the tension out of his shoulders on the couch and sucking him dry beneath the sheets. That last one tended to send him into mini freak-outs before and after, but his determination and, can you fucking believe it, <em>desire</em> for Richie tended to outweigh any lingering hangups. A blessing, if there ever was one for a Richard Wentworth Tozier.</p><p>Eddie placed his hand on Richie’s thigh, beneath his own due to the way they were spread out, pinky finger tracing the seam of his button-fly, teasing over his bulge. Such an action could make a man hysterical!</p><p><em>“Put your hands down my pants and I’ll bet you’ll feel nuts,”</em> he sang, chuckling when Eddie snorted against his cheek. <em>“Yes I’m Siskel, yes I’m Ebert, and you’re getting two thumbs up</em>—”</p><p>Eddie wasted no time quieting him with a wet kiss. Richie’s pulse galloped harder. He feelt lightheaded at just the prospect of sex with Eddie, as if he wasn’t getting it on the regular already. His body didn’t know any better, had wanted so much for so long that nothing was ever enough, and his heart couldn’t agree more.</p><p>Eddie began rubbing his jaw against Richie’s, scraping their facial hair together, hissing at the sensation and gasping at the grind of Richie’s hips.</p><p>“<em>Baby, please</em>,” he said quietly, barely a whisper, but Eddie was always listening, had heard him just fine. He undid his jeans as Richie kneaded his ass, palming at the creases below, right at the top of his thighs, wishing he could feel bare skin. When Eddie pressed down on his erection, index and middle finger slipping beneathe cotton to glide up his shaft, Richie nearly choked on his tongue.</p><p>He attached his lips to Eddie’s neck, licking at a vein and sucking at his throat, trying to reach between them to thumb at Eddie’s nipples under his shirt. He swore his ears began ringing as Eddie pulled him out of his boxers, thumb swiping at the slit of his cock, spreading the beads of precum across the head,, and—</p><p>“<em>OH FUCK!” </em>Eddie had shouted, tearing himself away from Richie to roll out of the hammock, barely landing on his feet. Again, like a kitten. </p><p><em>“What the dick</em>—”</p><p>“<em>The fucking oven!”</em></p><p>Richie laid there, erection curved in the air, limbs hanging half out of the hammock, and watched Eddie disappear up the stairs in a flurry. It was only then that he realized the ringing in his ears was <em>actually</em> a ringing coming from the kitchen. From a <em>fire alarm</em>. He was still partially hard as he hobbled out of the basement to make sure Eddie wasn’t running toward a fire.</p><p>There hadn’t been one, thank fuck, though the smoke was pretty thick. They opened all the windows in the immediate area and cleared away, not really talking about the ruined mood or the near disaster. Eddie looked absolutely pissed at himself for his negligence, as well as his latest cooking failure, so Richie let him be, sitting next to him on the front steps and taking in the chilly air without any shared body heat to warm them. Eddie gave a grumbling apology and Richie accepted it without any fanfare, and they’d stayed silent until Eddie felt the need to explain.</p><p>“<em>I wanted to do something nice for you. Since, y'know, you’ve been doing all this shit for me, and I can’t even fucking</em>—”</p><p>“<em>Whoa, hold on, what? Eddie, you took off work to come stay with me for pretty much half of December. Instead of telling me to fuck off while you go through all this bullshit, you’re like… like my boyfriend or something.” </em>He felt so stupid saying that, especially considering they’d bypassed labels on their previous talks, but it’s a definition that fits. One that he wants. “<em>You’re putting up with me on top of everything else, dude. That’s the nicest thing you could do.”</em></p><p><em>“I’m not ‘putting up’ with you, Richie,” </em>Eddie said with a sigh, twisting at the hip to face him. “<em>I want this too, alright? I just mean</em>—<em>I just</em>—<em>UGH.</em>” He turned away again, throwing his head back and running a hand through his hair. Richie looped their arms together to tug him closer, just a bit. “<em>I can’t even cook a fucking pot roast. What if you hadn’t come back and I was still sleeping? I could’ve burned down your house! I know better than that!”</em></p><p><em>“Yeah, but hey, everyone gets stupid around the holidays. And I </em>did <em>come home, so part of it’s my fault. For being so sexy and distracting.”</em></p><p>He grinned when Eddie laughed, eyes shining, the creases on his face appearing like rays to match his sunny smile. Richie's attraction was only heightened by Eddie's tousled hair and trimmed beard, purple splotches on his neck already showing in the crisp winter light. How the hell did Richie get so lucky? He's afraid to even wonder.</p><p>“<em>You are,”</em> Eddie said, like <em>he </em>was the one who got lucky. “<em>So yeah. Yeah, I guess it is your fault.”</em></p><p>“<em>Well then. I’m very sorry I ruined your dinner plans and almost burned down my own house. That was terribly irresponsible of me. I’ll try not to be such a sex god in the future.</em>”</p><p>“<em>Shut the fuck up</em>,” he’d breathed through a hearty laugh, shrill and loud and choking. Richie could feel himself smiling dopily as Eddie leaned in to press their shoulders together.</p><p>They’d gone back to the kitchen to finish cleaning after that, though Richie’s insides had never quite simmered down. He felt like he was about to vibrate out of his skin every time he said something that made Eddie laugh. The sound was addicting, so Richie kept at it, fielding requests and reenacting parts from his old shows that Eddie watched on video. No audience had ever made Richie feel so on top of the world.</p><p>Eventually, after a much smaller meal that they completed together, Eddie announced that he was going to take a shower to wash off the smell of burnt herbs and butter, since it’d lingered all throughout dinner and made him scrunch his nose up more than once. Richie thought he caught Eddie giving him some kind of <em>look</em> before he threw a dish towel down and stomped upstairs, but he wasn’t certain and didn’t want to push.</p><p>When he <em>did</em> follow Eddie up to his (currently <em>their)</em> bedroom, it was to flop on his bed, uncomfortably half-mast in his too-tight jeans, and call Stan to whine and complain about his predicament.</p><p>"Death by horniness?" Stan repeats after Richie lays out all his grievances. It brings him back to the present, where he shakes off every thought that's gotten him to this point. "I'm sure that’s not a thing. You’re just in your honeymoon phase."</p><p>"But this is <em>Eddie</em> we're talking about."</p><p>"And?"</p><p>"What do you mean, <em>and?</em> You have eyes, Stanley. He's fuckin' hot, man! This ain’t no phase, my dude, it’s a way of life. And it's not <em>just</em> the beard, he’s always been amazing, but now he's <em>here</em> and it’s driving me insane."</p><p>"You asked for this, Richie. You literally invited him. Now deal with it. <em>Please</em>. Preferably without calling me again."</p><p>"I <em>am</em> dealing with it! Kind of. With lots of sex. Or attempted sex.”</p><p>“Richie, I am <em>begging</em> you—” </p><p>“I ran into the wall earlier because he was—"</p><p>"<em>No!</em> Don’t tell me!"</p><p>"He was<em> laughing</em> so hard, calm down. I was showing him this bit, back from my early days. And he just—the way he smiles at me. <em>Stan</em>. My chest literally hurts. And my dick. But his<em> laugh!</em> Best sound I've ever heard."</p><p>"Richie, it pains me to compare us this way, but that's how I feel about Patty. It's how Ben and Beverly feel about each other. Bill and Audra, too."</p><p>"So you're saying this is normal?"</p><p>"No, I'm saying it's <em>special</em> and you're lucky to have it. We all are. But have you thought about telling Eddie these things? I know he'd appreciate it more than I do."</p><p>"Okay, ouch, but also… no? Come on, man. I tell him I—that I love him and everything, and I show him, and it's fine. <em>Better</em> than fine, fucking amazing, there’s nothing wrong. I'm not calling you 'cause I'm keeping it all in anymore, nothing like that, but it's... it's too much, right? It's gotta be. Like, I called him my <em>boyfriend</em>. To his face.” Even saying that to <em>Stan</em> makes Richie feel self-conscious. “He's here and he seems happy and we're having fun and he loves me, I don’t know <em>why</em>, but I feel like I’m too much right now—"</p><p>"Richie," Stan sighs, not as long-suffering as usual. "It's not too much. And neither are you. Eddie... it isn't my place to say, and Beverly would have a better idea than I do, but he hasn't exactly had the best experience with love, has he? Aside from us, look at his life. His mother was terrible, at the very least, and from what we know about the relationship he had with Myra—it wasn't exactly healthy or fulfilling. This must be as hard for him as it is for you, and yet he's <em>happy</em>. Do you understand?<em> You</em> make <em>him</em> as happy as <em>he</em> makes <em>you</em>. Telling him what you told me, it might be embarrassing but I can't imagine it wouldn't be appreciated. You have to communicate, even when things are good. <em>Especially</em> when things are good. That’s how they stay that way."</p><p>"I know. I <em>know</em>, alright? But this is supposed to be a vacation for him. I don’t wanna get all serious and smother him with my love or whatever. Wouldn't that be just as bad?"</p><p>"Sure, if what you want to do is smothering, which it isn't. Showing someone you love them is really important and you know how to do that, Richie. Both of you do. But it's nice to talk sometimes, isn’t it? I mean <em>really</em> talk, not that weird flirting-by-fighting shit you and Eddie have always done. If you feel bad or overwhelmed, tell him. If he does something that makes you realize why you love him so much, tell him that too. He didn't go to Chicago just to relax, Richie, he's there so you two can test out your future together. You can’t forget about that."</p><p>"Okay, yeah, but—<em>shit</em>, he's getting out of the shower. Gotta go—"</p><p>"No buts! Did you listen to anything I just said?"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah. I'll tell him he's got the purtiest smile in the world, thanks."</p><p>"Not like <em>that</em>. Don't make it a joke, you idiot. Let yourself be sincere with your feelings. If you do then Eddie will know it's okay and maybe he'll have some surprising things to say, too."</p><p>"Wait, how—Have you <em>talked</em> to Eddie? What did he say? Does he think I'm being weird? Does he like it here? Stan, <em>hurry the fuck up!"</em></p><p>"Ask him yourself, Richie. I literally<em> just</em> told you that. And no, he hasn't called me, but a little birdie with a capital B might have spoken to him recently. And I might have it on good authority that his hour long post-airport shower wasn't all about germs."</p><p>"What, was he jacking off? I know he likes it in the shower. Less mess. Yesterday we—"</p><p>"He was having a <em>meltdown</em>, Richie, what the fuck. Stop telling me about your sex life!"</p><p>Richie blinks rapidly at the wall, distantly aware of Eddie rummaging around in the bathroom.</p><p>"Why?" he croaks, trying hard not to jump the gun. "Does he hate it here and I’m just too dumb to see it? Dude, what did Bill say? Is he fucking <em>miserable?</em> He doesn't act like it but I'm a fucking idiot, how would I know?"</p><p>"Who says it was Bill? It could've been Beverly or Ben."</p><p>"'Cause Bill is Bill. I mean, I know Eddie’s gotten pretty close with Bev since all this divorce stuff started, but he always used to complain to Bill about things. I figure that's something that would've—hey, answer the question! Jesus Christ, he already hates it, doesn't he?"</p><p>"He wasn't complaining and he doesn't hate it. He was—he was doing what you're doing now, I guess. All I know is that he called Bill after he got there because he didn’t know what to do. Bill said he was okay, he just seemed like he wasn’t used to what he was feeling. And being in the house he's eventually going to move into—” Richie could shout at the sound of that alone, “—just really made him emotional. Honestly, it's only been two weeks since Thanksgiving. How he missed your trash mouth <em>that</em> much in such a short amount of time is beyond me."</p><p>"Oh,” Richie says dumbly, keeping the extra '<em>because he loves me'</em> to himself. He doesn’t want to jinx it by saying it too often. "He, uh—<em>huh</em>. Okay..."</p><p>"Yep. Congratulations, you both have issues. You deserve each other.” All things considered, Stanley sounds sincere. Richie reminds himself to send an extra <em>thank you</em> to the great turtle above for keeping both these assholes in his life. “Can I go now?"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, I, uh—" Eddie opens the door then, stepping out with a billow of steam behind him, his red pajama shirt growing damp where the fabric clings to his chest. He smiles when he sees Richie blinking at him from the bed, fingers toying with the mess of hair at his crown that's slightly longer than the rest and is just beginning to curl, unsettled as it is. His matching red pants are perfectly ironed. "Bye," Richie blurts, hanging up the phone before Stan can get another word in, resisting the urge to toss it away as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. Eddie must notice because that familiar little crease appears between his thick brows.</p><p>"Hey, everything okay?" he wonders as Richie hops off the bed and strides swiftly over. Eddie opens his mouth to say something else, alarmed by Richie’s strange behavior, tilting his head back to meet his eye the closer Richie gets. But all that comes out is a choked squeak of surprise when Richie pushes him against the wall, cups his jaw in both of his big hands, and plants a dizzying kiss onto his lips.</p><p>Eddie's response is immediate.</p><p>He clings to Richie's shoulders, forcing him to stoop as he, himself, rockets onto his toes. His fingers stretch, tickling the short hairs at Richie's nape that he's still trying to get used to. </p><p>"What the fuck?" Eddie pants into his mouth, wheezing against Richie's clever tongue snaking out to meet his, their teeth clacking painfully.</p><p>Richie huffs a breathy laugh and slots the thick meat of his thigh between Eddie's legs, swallowing the interested hum he makes deep in the back of his throat. </p><p>"I'm an idiot," he mumbles against Eddie's slick lips, the drag of his perfect beard against Richie's careless stubble creating a strange sensation that makes him shudder and choke on all the excessive saliva he's producing.</p><p>"Yeah," Eddie agrees, allowing Richie to wrap an arm around his lower back in order to press their bottom halves together, pelvis to pelvis. The dormant haze of pleasure begins to stir. </p><p>"And <em>you're </em>an idiot."</p><p>"Probably." The tip of Eddie's nose slides against Richie's cheek, across his jawline and beneath his chin, lips grazing the heavy bob of his throat before latching onto the scruffy skin there. "Wait, why?"</p><p>"I thought, I mean—I figured I was gonna be too much. That <em>this</em> was gonna be too much, for you, 'cause of everything that's been going on." A whine tumbles out of him, interrupting his speech, body reacting fast to the fuzzy kisses Eddie scatters across the pale expanse of his neck. He's going to leave another bruise, Richie knows, leg twitching against the crotch of Eddie's pajamas. He thinks about how the faded hickeys from Florida have steadily been replaced with new ones since his arrival, how Eddie is so eager to mark him and be marked in turn, and nearly passes out. "And after the fucking <em>fire</em> and how upset you were about trying to pay me back or whatever... I dunno. You seemed really overwhelmed, it just got me thinking. Maybe you weren't ready for this. Or didn't want it the way I did—"</p><p>"Richie, no," Eddie hisses, bearing down on Richie's thigh with shy little thrusts he only increases the speed of when Richie guides his hips encouragingly. The outline of his hardening cock makes heat pool in Richie's abdomen, blood pumping wildly all throughout his body. "I want, I <em>want, </em>I'm just, I'm so—"</p><p>"You are," Richie hums, not even sure what he means by that or what Eddie was actually trying to articulate. But he <em>knows. </em>"And that's what I'm saying! You were freaked out and <em>I</em> was freaked out, and I thought—<em>fuck</em>, Eddie, I thought I was pushing, but you had a freaking meltdown—"</p><p>"Were you talking to Bill?" Eddie asks, high and accusing. He doesn't stop the motion of his hips, though, and Richie's eyelids flutter when his stomach manages to rub against his own chub with every see-saw motion. "I didn't know he was such a fucking gossip queen."</p><p>"Stan," Richie corrects, shoving at Eddie's shoulders until his head thunks against the wall, spine bowed, tendons taut. He angles his hips a little to the right so his semi-erection can feel the slightest pressure of Eddie's wiggling hips. "Blubbering Bill? More like <em>Blabbermouth </em>Bill, am I right?"</p><p>Richie doesn't give Eddie a chance to reply. He ducks down to capture his panting mouth in another sloppy kiss, taking pride in the upturned corners of his lips even if they make things difficult. <em>"Oh, Jesus."</em></p><p>Eddie's hands ghost over Richie's ass, fingers slipping into the pockets of his jeans to haul him closer. There's a squeeze, he doesn't imagine it, and Richie's leg slips, causing their bodies to fully collide, his taller frame crowding Eddie so entirely he's surprised they haven't made a dent in the wall.</p><p>"You <em>are</em> too much," Eddie says, sounding strangled. Richie licks a stripe up his throat, groaning at the shiver it induces, a hint of soap cutting into fresh perspiration. He pulls the hem of Eddie's shirt up to palm at his abs, the firm skin tantalizingly warm and rigid. Quivering. "You're impossible and exhausting and loud. I can't believe I ever forgot how much space you used to take up in ny fucking head and—and my <em>heart,</em> you asshole."</p><p>God, Richie is a crybaby, tears springing at just the mention of Eddie's <em>feelings</em> for him. He never used to be like this. Even when he was a pathetically pining kid he could get a lid on all his big, scary emotions. But now? Maybe it's because of how long they've been away, because of how much time they've lost; or maybe it's because he finally has Eddie in the way he always knew he wanted, even when he didn't understand the extent of his desires and, later, couldn't remember them. They've broken each other down so thoroughly that having the chance to build each other up again is a novelty that'll never wear off. </p><p>"<em>Baby</em>," Richie can't help but gasp, pressing his face into Eddie's damp hair, smudging his glasses in the process. The answering whine he receives is filled wirh appreciation.</p><p>"And now it's literal! You're so fucking <em>big</em>, dude, what the fuck. I hate you." He removes his hands from Richie's ass to trail up his back, cupping his shoulder blades and then moving onto his jaw, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin behind his ears to make him squirm. His eyes are always big, though they look ginormous now, reminiscent of a soulful cow instead of the usual adorable deer. But his chocolate irises are swallowed by inky pupils, expanded by lust and shimmering with love. "I'm okay," Eddie whispers, and Richie doesn't know how he means it, there are so many ways for those two words to apply, but it calms him all the same. Gives him a moment away from the fervor to hold Eddie in his arms and kiss the lines on his forehead. "It wasn't a <em>meltdown</em>. I wanted to be here, but I was… worried. That <em>I'd</em> be too much. I know I am on a normal day and this—" He motions vaguely around the room, looking flushed and indignant. Richie can <em>feel</em> how dopey his own smile is. He doesn't care. "<em>This</em> is anything but normal. And I… I really don't want to scare you off. I know you said you didn't want me regretting <em>my</em> decisions, but Richie, I don't want <em>you</em> regretting yours either."</p><p>"Eds." Richie slots their noses next to each other, lips less than an inch apart. He keeps his eyes open halfway to relish in the view of Eddie slowly melting into him, becoming one with the smooth plaster behind and the worn fabric of Richie's shirt in front. His lips part with a shaky breath and damn, it's gorgeous. "Eddie, baby, <em>never</em>. Never, ever, ever."</p><p>"You don't know that," he all but pouts, curling his fist into Richie's rounded collar. Why is he still wearing a shirt? Why is <em>Eddie</em> still wearing one? Richie tugs until Eddie allows him to lift it off and toss it to the floor. "We're different than we used to be, that's just how getting older works, and I'm afraid that, like, you're gonna figure it out real soon, how different I am, or wind up realizing you could do so much better."</p><p>That is such a lie and it breaks Richie's heart a little bit, to hear that Eddie believes it, to hear Eddie so down on himself, although Richie thoroughly understands that sort of headspace. He has those same fears about himself, thinking sometimes that Eddie getting tired of him—his personality, his career, the fragile state of his emotional well-being, the differences between the Richie he knew then and the one he's getting to know now—is nothing but inevitable. In the midst of the nightmares he has about death and Derry, he dreams of a day Eddie will want out; a day he'll drive to work and never come back, calling him one last time to say he's ending this relationship like how he ended the other one. The marriage. Not that Eddie and Richie are ever going to get <em>married</em>,like he currently is. No, no, that's not—</p><p>
  <strike>(Well, fine, so what if he's thought about it?)</strike>
</p><p>Shaking his head, Richie unfurls Eddie's fist from his shirt to hold in his hand instead, tracing sharp knuckles with absent-minded delicacy. </p><p>"I love you," he says, plain and simple, cracking only faintly. "I've never loved anyone the way I love you, Eds, and I never will. I <em>do</em> know that, but if <em>you</em> don't then I'll show you, okay? However long you want me to."</p><p>Eddie looks so unbearably soft, staring up at Richie, mouth swollen and eyes lidded, dimples winking beneath his blush. Richie would think it uncharacteristic of someone as aggressive and high-strung as Eddie Kaspbrak, but he's seen enough glimpses since Derry to understand that maybe adulthood hasn't been kind enough to give him a <em>chance</em> to be gentle. He can recall specific moments in the past, as far away as the memories sometimes are, where Eddie as a kid had sporadic periods of sugar-sweet loveliness—so long as no one was around to call him on it. Here, Eddie knows Richie could. He also knows he won't.</p><p>They're sappy old men these days and that's more than alright. It's <em>earned. </em></p><p>"You gonna let me show you, too?" Eddie wonders, coy in a way that suits him all too well. Richie aches all over, but especially in his chest. And between his legs. He's only human.</p><p>"Yeah. Yes."</p><p>"Can we start right now?"</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>"I thought we started four months ago," Richie timidly jokes, "but sure, yep. We can do that."</p><p>"Good." </p><p>Eddie shoves Richie back then, causing him to stumble toward the bed. He gets the hint but doesn't have a chance to take it before Eddie is on him again, wrangling him out of his shirt while simultaneously trying to yank him out of his pants. It doesn't work and Richie laughs—amused, but also nervous because Eddie is trying to get him <em>naked</em> and that won't ever be a thing he can casually gloss over.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Eddie grumbles, giving up on the shirt to focus entirely on the pants. Clearly Richie's dick is of the utmost importance. "Shut up and help me."</p><p>So he does, sort of, by reaching out to free <em>Eddie</em> of his cloth imprisonment, earning a relieved moan when his pajamas and boxers are shoved down in one go to pop his boner free. Not even a second later he's scowling and shoving Richie again. </p><p>"I meant help me—"</p><p>"I <em>am</em> helping you!"</p><p>"—get <em>you</em> undressed! Fuck. <em>Shit!</em>"</p><p>He doesn't have much to complain about once Richie takes him in hand, practically leading him by the dick like a leash, stepping on the legs of Eddie's pants for him as they back up so he can pull his legs out without tripping. </p><p>"Jesus, Rich, hold on!" he hisses, giving a breathless chuckle, reaching up to press on Richie's shoulder until he lets go and sits on the edge of the bed. </p><p>Eddie has only just kicked his boxers off when Richie decides to duck down and swallow his erection in one go, gagging violently but not minding one bit. Eddie doubles over, hollering in surprise, groaning hotly against Richie's head as he clings to his back while Richie tries valiantly to devour him whole. </p><p>"Richie, come <em>on</em>," Eddie petulantly whines, sounding almost like he used to as a kid whenever Richie wouldn't let him have his way.</p><p>He can have anything he wants now. It just so happens that Richie finds it beneficial, too. </p><p>Eddie tugs hard at the short strands of Richie's hair the longer he mouths at the swollen tip. He'd been frustrated with the cut of the style in Florida, after having been able to yank on Richie's longer locks in Derry and Georgia, and Richie suspects he's even more annoyed now, here in Chicago. But he seems to <em>like</em> it, too, all things considered. Had spent at least an hour absently combing his fingers through those strands as they laid on the couch the other night, eating too-buttery popcorn and watching <em>Die Hard </em>on repeat. (Richie had tensed eight times out of ten when <em>yippie ki yay</em> came up, but Eddie going off on a rant about how it was most definitely <em>not</em> a Christmas movie was more than enough to distract him from the not-so-distant past.)</p><p>Richie releases Eddie's cock from the moist heat of his mouth after suckling the purpling head for a few more moments, lapping at the shaft as he struggles to breathe, massaging Eddie's balls and kneading his thighs and slapping his ass just because he can. Eddie yelps and uses the thicker hair on Richie's crown to yank his head back in revenge, the force of it getting him to moan like a whore. Eddie does it again.</p><p>Blinking blearily behind crooked glasses, Richie is manhandled into a position that gives Eddie room to properly undress him, which he does with hasty enthusiasm.</p><p>"You didn't shower," he grumbles, plopping onto Richie's naked lap without warning. They both sigh at the feeling of being completely skin-to-skin. "I wanted to fuck you but you didn't <em>shower</em>—"</p><p>"But <em>you</em> did," Richie points out, knowing before Eddie even bites his lip that they won't be going <em>there</em> tonight. He's far from minding. </p><p>"I don't think I'm… just, um, ready? Or—"</p><p>"Hey, no. You don't have to be, Eds. Like, ever. If that's not something you want—"</p><p>"I don't know! I don't know. I've thought about it, but…"</p><p>"You're not ready," Richie parrots, raking his fingers through Eddie's wild hair, the edges still damp and curling, fluffed at the top like a dark halo. He punctuates his statement with a kiss to the tip of Eddie's lightly freckled nose, absolutely adoring the way it scrunches instinctively. "And that's fine. It's cool. I'm <em>always</em> ready, so if you wanna dick me down, feel free, mi amour."</p><p>"But you didn't <em>shower," </em>Eddie complains again, mapping the soft planes of Richie's chest and stomach with greedy fingers, tugging gently at all the coarse hair covering his skin. "And you don't have gloves."</p><p>"Because <em>someone </em>used them all during a super unnecessary cleaning spree. I can do it myself, dude," Richie says, feeling a little ashamed despite how downright interested Eddie looks at that revelation, tilting his head like a dog who's just been offered a treat. </p><p>They've only <em>fuck</em>-fucked a few times in total, though always with two stipulations: Richie on the receiving end and gloves used for prep. Eddie isn't as much of a germaphobe as he thinks he is—used to get down and dirty with the best of them, growing up, once he got out of his own head enough to forget any potential qualms—but he's understandably squeamish about the whole "fingers up the ass" thing. Meanwhile, Richie's issues have always been more to do with the idea of masculinity and the perception of his peers than how hygienic the practices are, but not even <em>those</em> niggling thoughts can stop him from wanting Eddie to rail him through the bed. When they get this way, he craves it like nothing else; that feeling of being stretched and stuffed, his mind and body and soul surrendering to Eddie's ministrations just as Eddie surrenders to him and the pleasures having Richie's body permits. It's more than just physical, is some whole other beast of intimacy and adoration mixed in with that <em>thing</em> inside them that always wanted to be known, seen, indulged<em>.</em></p><p>"Can I watch?" Eddie brazenly questions, thick brows rising high on his forehead as he waits to see if he'll be denied or not. Richie snorts so hard his sinuses sting.</p><p>"Yeah. 'Course," he replies. A bit shy, deep down, but aching for it beyond belief. He constantly wanted Eddie to watch him. This is just another version of that wish. "Get the lube."</p><p>Eddie obeys the command, stepping into the en-suite for a split second to grab a towel, rocketing toward the nightstand on Richie's side of the bed to dig around for the bottle they haven't yet used this visit, previously counting on spit and precum to get them through the handies and blowies and overall humping they've participated in thus far. It hasn't been much, as busy (and horny) as they've been, but the satisfaction that came (<em>ha</em>) from each encounter more than made up for it. </p><p>Richie catches the bottle of lube Eddie tosses to him, feeling silly as he rolls onto his stomach with his ass fully exposed. It's nothing Eddie hasn't seen before, of course, but he's usually an active participant no matter what they do. Here, aside from pulling Richie's hips up to place a pillow beneath him for some comfortable elevation, he sits on the bed, also completely nude, and… waits. Observes. His hands are on his own thighs, away from the fat dick curving toward his stomach, rubbing over the tense muscles there like he's the one who's nervous. But he doesn't look away and Richie doesn't want him to, so he squirts some lube onto his fingers and gets to work. </p><p>He would rarely ever do this kind of thing, in all his years as a semi-eligible bachelor, and if he did it was only when he was alone, never with a partner. It was like testing the waters whenever he'd breach that part of himself in the shower, and then the fear would take hold and he'd stop and never think about it again... until the next time his curiosity took over. Yes, Richie had been the one to talk Eddie through the action of preparation those first couple of times, but having to do it himself is truly a different story. He doesn't know how to feel yet, other than wanting Eddie inside him.</p><p>"I can go," Eddie offers, sensing Richie's uncertainty. "You can call me back in, when—if—"</p><p>"No." Richie grimaces into the pillow, working himself open with an added finger and extra lube. "No, I'm good, just, uh. Gimme a second. Feels better when you do it."</p><p>"I know. I'm sorry," Eddie murmurs, sounding like he not only means it but is ashamed he can't yet take this step, like he's miserable about any shortcomings that put distance between them. </p><p>Richie tries to grin reassuringly.</p><p>"Nah, c'mon, I'm good. But maybe you could—" Eddie puts a warm hand on Richie's back before he finishes asking for it, the touch heavy above the soft swell of his ass, which pushes out further as if on its own accord, every inch of him searching for Eddie's touch no matter the circumstance. "Yeah, yeah, that. Keep your hands on me, please," he babbles, twisting his fingers more urgently, beginning to tingle through the burn.</p><p>"I'm right here, Rich," Eddie assures, low and steady. It goes right to Richie's dick, makes him moan. Eddie's fingertips dance up the curve of Richie's spine, nails scraping over each notch, up and down and up and down again. "Jesus, fuck, Richie. <em>Look</em> at you."</p><p>"I'd rather, <em>ah." </em>He's worked up to three fingers now, breath hitching with each angled drag. He could reach his prostate, he thinks, with his long arms and fingers, but he won't. "Rather look at <em>you</em>."</p><p>"Then look at me."</p><p>Rolling his head across the pillow, Richie turns to capture Eddie in his sights, flushed cheek pressed against the expensive case he thinks he got as part of a housewarming gift years prior. His glasses are askew, making his head swim sickeningly from the unnatural slant of the scene, but he sees enough to put him more at ease. Besides, Eddie's hand has ventured up to the back of his neck to hold him in place, keeping eye contact that placates them both. The fire in Richie's belly is stoked by Eddie's gaze tracking the movement of his tongue licking his lips, following all the way down to where his wrist is pumping back and forth. </p><p>"Hey…" He reaches out with his left hand, which is thankfully closest to Eddie, skimming clumsily across Eddie's sternum, down to his scar. There's nothing to dig into, save for some scarce body hair, so he does what he can, scratching blunt nails across rosy skin, in hopes of Eddie understanding.</p><p>It's no surprise that he does.</p><p>The kiss is lazy, open-mouthed, sloppy. Richie keens at the bite of Eddie's teeth against his lip, his jaw, the sweet whispers against his chin going unheard with how hard Richie is breathing now, but he appreciates the sentiment and the vibrations of his voice. </p><p><em>"Eddie,"</em> he moans, curling their tongues together, grinding against the pillow he's pressed against. Eddie pushes at Richie's side in response, holding him so he can move his torso to the side to press deeper into himself. </p><p>He spreads and thrusts his fingers for a few minutes, off in his own little world until Eddie makes a noise that draws Richie's fluttering lids fully open, unfocused pupils settling first on Eddie's face, slack-jawed and misty-eyed, and then on his dick and the hand that clutches it roughly, veins jutting prominently beneath the strained skin of his forearm. It's like he's afraid he might cum just from watching Richie, like seeing him naked and open is enough to wreck him.</p><p>Maybe it is. Richie definitely doesn't have the patience to find out right now, however. He feels close to wrecked too.</p><p>"Okay, alright, I'm ready! Fucking—<em>please</em>, Eddie. <em>Hah. </em>Give it to me."</p><p>Richie takes the towel from Eddie's hand to wipe his fingers, tosses it to the side as the <em>rip</em> of the condom wrapper slices through the air. He starts leaning on his elbows when Eddie flips him over with one powerful shove, landing him on his back with an <em>oof</em>, wobbly legs flopping like noodles. </p><p>"Okay?" Eddie checks, looking up from rolling the condom on to meet Richie's gaze from beneath his lashes. </p><p>Seeing Eddie this way, all rumpled and wild and <em>aroused</em>—because of Richie, <em>for</em> Richie—is rapturous. Richie can only nod like a bobblehead and plant his feet firmly on the mattress so Eddie can fit himself between his thighs, lining up to begin the fun. And he does, after adjusting the pillow beneath Richie's ass, using the lube he grabs from Richie's outstretched hand to coat his erection with a generous amount.</p><p>Eddie expertly boxes Richie in despite his smaller statue, blanketing him with half his weight and all his affection, making him feel safe and cared for. He doesn't slip in right away, but rather rubs the underside of his cock against Richie's stretched hole to help make the entrance that much slicker. Maybe it's also to tease, Richie doesn't know. He's too Dick Dumb already, can't properly read the intensity clouding Eddie's sweat-dampened features while everything is so unbearably hot (the heater kicking on to knock out some of that winter chill doesn't help). He can't focus on <em>anything</em>.</p><p>Oh, except the tip of Eddie's cock pushing past the barrier that leads into his body. That's pretty fucking hard to miss. </p><p>It hurts at first, a distant blooming of pain from Eddie's girth, but in a way Richie enjoys, a way he knows will be soothed by Eddie's hips and hands and heart if he merely waits for it to happen. The best part is that he knows it will. </p><p>Eddie starts slow, <em>agonizingly,</em> switching between keeping his eyes on every twitch of Richie's expression followed by every twitch of Richie's dick, glancing down at his own cock every now and then as it disappears inch by magnificent inch. Both of them hold their breaths until Eddie finally hits all the way home, buried to the hilt inside of Richie's tight, welcoming hole.</p><p>"Jesus, God<em>damn</em>," Richie curses, punched out and drunk on the feeling of having the love of his life connected to him without barriers or restraints. It's still scary and it's still a lot, but it's still one trillion percent worth everything Richie has gone through in his forty years of life. Except <em>this </em>is how he's supposed to be living.</p><p>Richie had flagged marginally while working himself open for Eddie's length, going for efficiency and not so much enjoyment, but he's as hard as a rock once more with Eddie's hips flush against his ass and thighs, balls deep, the slight paunch of his tummy basically a cushion for Eddie's abs in their current position. </p><p>"Can I move? You good?"</p><p>"<em>Yes</em>," Richie sighs, already sinking down onto Eddie before he can pull out even an inch. </p><p>He groans at Richie's initiative, using the crooks of his knees to lift him slightly off the bed so he can pull back smoothly and then thrust all the way in with one hard swivel. Richie chokes on his saliva, grabs at Eddie's arms, leads him down so that they're flush all over and can kiss as much as their heavy breathing will allow.</p><p>"Harder," comes his garbled plea. He lets himself ask for it. Eddie doesn't argue.</p><p>The bed rocks with the force of their fucking, air muggy from their groans and gasps. Eddie braces his knees against the rumpled sheets and hooks Richie's legs around his torso until his ankles lock at his back, and Richie responds by folding Eddie into his embrace so their foreheads touch. His lips tingle as Eddie mewls into them, barely any volume behind the sounds, all of him strung out and stretched thin the longer and faster he pounds Richie into oblivion. </p><p>They don't look anywhere except each other and that, more than anything else, is what causes fresh tears to blur Richie's eyes, glasses fogging around the edges until he can't really see anything at all. But he can <em>feel;</em> Eddie's teeth on his neck, the tip of Eddie's cock drilling his prostate, the muscles of Eddie's stomach rubbing against Richie's trapped and leaking cock. The bedding beneath Richie's back is plush but too hot, adding to the collection of sweat droplets building up across his body, and Eddie's skin is smooth and sexy at every point of shared contact. </p><p>They're surprisingly quiet this go around, as far as talking is concerned. Not that they've been complete motormouths during their previous sexscapades, but this seems decidedly different, as if they're ravishing and relishing one another in complete and utter comfort for the very first time, locked away inside Richie's home (which will someday be <em>theirs</em>) without company or impending plans. It's just them. RichieAndEddie. They don't need anything more. </p><p>Eddie places his arms on either side of Richie's head. He loses some rhythm and control this way, but it puts them closer together, sends them into a dirty grind that has Richie throbbing, heart fluttering, neck straining and tongue lolling to lick at the inside of Eddie's flexed bicep, blowing a raspberry there because he's out of his mind. Eddie tucks his face into the crook of Richie's shoulder and snorts a terribly beautiful laugh. Richie grins against his ear.</p><p>His orgasm builds and builds and builds, inching ever closer to the edge, the two chasing it simultaneously. He grips Eddie's hair in a trembling fist and cries out, the rush of his release quickly approaching. </p><p>"Eddie, Eds, I—<em>mmm</em>, ha!"</p><p>Richie latches onto Eddie's chest once he pushes up to rest on his hands, scrapes his teeth over a pec and nibbles a pebbled nipple. Eddie squawks, hips faltering at the sting, but when he picks up the pace again it's with renewed vigor, causing Richie to gasp and buck and nearly rip the loose end of the pillowcase he reaches up to hold tightly onto. </p><p>"Close?" Eddie grunts, eyes boring into Richie's as deep as the cock buried inside him. He swears he can feel in his throat. </p><p>"<em>Yeah</em>. Right there. Right—m'like—<em>uh…"</em></p><p>"You're gonna cum, huh? Gonna cum on my cock, Rich? You like it? Want me to make you cum?"</p><p>Richie's head is spinning, his insides tangling into a million knots. He can't stop caressing Eddie's sexy beard, scar, and dimple combination. The most endearing Triple Threat in the world.</p><p>"I'm gonna fuckin' <em>die</em>, Eddie. You're gonna kill me. <em>Please.</em>"</p><p>The noises he's making are almost unholy, entirely unattractive compared to Eddie's mildly embarrassing little whines, and Richie will probably be mortified later but for now he only cares about one thing.</p><p>"C'mon, hotshot," Eddie goads, skin splotchy pink and lips shiny with spit, doe eyes blown wide. He leans back on his haunches to pin Richie's hips in place so he can wrap a hand around his neglected length, jerking him rough and fast and thumbing at the soaked head with every skilled twist of his wrist. Richie hisses at the contact he craves, arches into it while also trying to drop himself farther down onto Eddie's pistoning prick. "Show me what you got. Let me make you feel good."</p><p>Richie loses control of himself after that, babbling nonsense in between dry sobs and strangled breaths. He's right <em>there</em>, on the cusp of ecstacy, surrounded by Eddie and nothing else. Just pleasure, good and true, threatening to take him over at any second. </p><p>He pries his eyes open when he feels fingers dance across his throat, trailing down to rest over the rapid pattering of his heart. He still can't see very well, but Eddie's face is etched into his mind so thoroughly at this point that all he needs is to spot the scar on his cheek, the downturned corners of his lips, the hair around his forehead that's matted with sweat, to feel the wash of calm that cataloging Eddie's presence brings.</p><p>"I love you," Eddie puffs, nasally, gruff. "I—I love you, Richie. You're incredible. You're perfect. <em>Come on.</em>"</p><p>It crashes down on Richie, the whole damn thing, and he writhes and bucks and moans as if he's being fucking <em>possessed</em> by Eddie's fucking devil <em>dick</em>. The tension snaps like the wires on a lift, sending him careening off a slope with nowhere to land and nothing to cling to. Everything goes dark for a moment, though he can hear Eddie shout, can feel the points of his body that are being touched even as everything grows fuzzy and warm, then slack and numb. </p><p>This is the best Richie has ever felt. He thinks that every time he's with Eddie, but that's because it's <em>true. </em>He swears he discovers whole new galaxies whenever Eddie drives him to an orgasm, transporting him to some other plane of existence for however long it lasts. Maybe it's so intense because he never thought he could have this. Maybe that's just an effect of Eddie Kaspbrak.</p><p>Richie blinks rapidly, tries to get the world around him to focus now that he's floating back down to reality, but his bedroom remains blurry and undetailed. He realizes after reaching up to adjust his glasses that they've come off his face at some point, around the same time he realizes that Eddie is using the discarded towel to wipe jizz off his chest and stomach and… chin? He shot off like a freaking rocket, hadn't he?</p><p>"Did you…" he starts to ask hoarsely, squinting at the shape of Eddie where he lies boneless beside Richie, slightly propped up while he sluggishly cleans Richie's chest hair. He can't see Eddie's dick so he's not sure if he reached his high as well, but the fact that he's not rutting into the mattress is a good sign. </p><p>"Hmm?"</p><p>Richie cups Eddie's wrist as he continues to brush a corner of the towel over his skin. </p><p>"Did you get your rocks off or am I a selfish bitch?"</p><p>Eddie presses his mouth against Richie's shoulder, his warm breath caressing it with a laugh. He places a tender kiss to the clammy skin there and hums, stopping the movement of his hand to rest it and the towel in the center or Richie's torso, feeling the rise and fall slow to a normal rate.</p><p>"I was right there with you, pal."</p><p>Richie nods. He stretches his limbs, jaw cracking with a satisfying yawn. </p><p>"That's good. Missed it, though. Think you can go again?"</p><p>The sound of Eddie's hand slapping his belly is loud, makes him snort. </p><p>"You can't <em>still</em> be horny."</p><p>"No, no, I'm not." <em>Well…</em> "I just can't believe I missed your O face. It's freaking spectacular. I'd be really sad right now if I could feel anything at all. You fucked me numb, man."</p><p>"Did I?" Eddie sounds smug, the bastard. It's very much earned. "Same for me, Rich. Don't worry."</p><p>"But I wanted to <em>see.</em>"</p><p>"I'll come first next time," he promises, a little sarcastic but also genuine. Richie's body gives a pathetic shiver. "And honestly, I'm kind of glad you were too wrapped up in yourself to notice what was going on."</p><p>"Hey!"</p><p>"Like, I'm pretty sure I was saying some really embarrassing shit."</p><p>"<em>Oh?"</em></p><p>"Yes. Let's leave it at that."</p><p>"But Eddie, my love—"</p><p>He's shut up with a kiss, a quick peck square on the lips. It's the most effective method of quieting him, Eddie knows, but he doesn't use his super power as often as Richie thought he might. He's still floored to know that Eddie <em>likes</em> it when Richie talks, likes the timber of his voice, likes the awful jokes and mildly accurate impressions. The lethargy of his post-orgasmic state is slowly being replaced by overflowing affection.</p><p>"We need to shower," Eddie grumbles against the hinge of Richie's jaw, having moved on to nosing at his ear like he's a puppy begging for attention. "And the sheets are all gross now—"</p><p>"That can wait. Let's just…"</p><p>Richie maneuvers himself so he can open his arms to Eddie, smiling softly as he squints at what he's sure is Eddie's thoughtful expression. He's debating whether or not they should clean up before they cuddle, because cuddling undoubtedly means falling asleep, and Eddie wouldn't want to do that unless he feels fresh and brand new. But Richie's expression must be the perfect amount of tragic for him to pity because, with a heavy sigh, Eddie grabs at the blanket hanging off the foot of the bed and pulls it up with him as he flops down into Richie's embrace, using his pecs as a pillow to rest his weary head. </p><p>They're wiggling around to get comfortable when Richie belatedly blurts: "I love you," remembering that he hadn't said it back when Eddie sent him off the edge with his own declaration. </p><p>"I know," Eddie whispers, the little turd. Richie combs through his mussed hair with a sniffle.</p><p>Thinking back to the conversation he had with Stan, knowing he wasn't the only one with worries, Richie pulls Eddie tighter against him to murmur, "You being here is the best thing that's ever happened to me." A pause. "Okay, you loving me back is the best thing that's ever happened to me, but having you here is a close second, or part of the same thing, I just—" </p><p>"I know, Rich. This is, um. Yeah. Me too."</p><p>Richie smiles at Eddie's lack of eloquence and folds them closer together, spotting the outline of his glasses atop the nightstand before his eyes droop closed. He shrugs the towel off onto the floor, then settles atop the bedding, letting Eddie readjust the placement of his head on Richie's chest, ear over heart.</p><p>Despite the stuffiness of the room, Richie is filled with contentment. He finds himself easily drifting when Eddie decides to speak.</p><p>"Hey, Rich?"</p><p>"Hm."</p><p>"What'd you get me?"</p><p>Not what he was expecting. Richie shakes with silent laughter. Eddie must know he won't receive a truthful answer, but he's attempting to use their current sated state to his advantage. </p><p>"Assless chaps," Richie replies, ruffling Eddie's already crazy hair, just to be a shit. Eddie flicks one of his nipples. "And like twenty gingerbread house kits, but that's for both of us. Figured we could make a mansion for all our cookie minions. Give 'em a nice life before we send 'em to the guillotine."</p><p>"You're so weird," Eddie says through an obnoxious giggle-snort. "Can we do it tomorrow?"</p><p>Richie cracks an eye open and tilts his head to the side to stare down at Eddie's upturned face, looking sweet and sleepy in the shadows of the room. </p><p>"Yeah? You don't wanna wait 'til Christmas?"</p><p>"Nah, I'd rather do it as soon as possible. I have to make up for that shifty fucking pot roast somehow."</p><p>"Alrighty then. Tomorrow it is. Think Ben'll give us some tips?"</p><p>"He fucking better. I'll text him in the morning, ask if he'll have time to Skype around noon."</p><p>"I don't think I'm gonna get up until two, dude. You wore me out. It's a miracle I even know what's going on right now."</p><p>"Fine. I'll tell him around three." Of course he wants to schedule <em>Gingerbread House Building</em> in his planner. Richie feels himself smiling as his eyes begin to droop yet again. "Hey, wait. Aren't you gonna ask me what <em>I</em> got <em>you?"</em></p><p>"No."</p><p>"Really?" He sounds shocked, which is understandable. Richie used to be too impatient for surprises. "Why?"</p><p>"'Cause if my present is anything other than you in a slutty costume, I don't want it."</p><p>"<em>Wha</em>—shut the fuck up!"</p><p>"Then let me <em>sleep</em>, spaghetti man. Why're you still awake? Was I that bad of a lay?"</p><p>"No." Eddie hooks a leg over Richie's thighs beneath the blanket. He tucks his head under Richie's chin and sighs, creating goosebumps over the expanse of Richie's bare skin. "I feel like I'm gonna conk out any second, I, uh, just… I like hearing your voice."</p><p>Richie swallows at the admission, takes a deep breath. He presses his lips to Eddie's hairline, lids slipping closed.</p><p>"You do, huh?"</p><p>"Don't make it a <em>thing</em>."</p><p>"But <em>baby</em>—"</p><p>The purposeful huskiness of his voice makes Eddie squirm against his side, but only for a moment.</p><p>"<em>Goodnight</em>," is his quick reply, decisive in delivery but bashful in tone. </p><p>Fucking <em>A</em>, he loves this man. He loves him, he loves him, he <em>loves</em>. </p><p>"Nighty night, Eds."</p><p>He's out like a light a few minutes after those words are yawned into the open.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Secret Inside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>'—</span>
  <em>
    <span>sentimental feeling when you hear voices singing let's be jolly, deck the halls with boughs of holly. Rocking around the Christmas tree, have a</span>
  </em>
  <span>—'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ew, no," Eddie says from in front of the kitchen island, vetoing a fifth holiday classic in as little as five minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie rolls his eyes. He leans his hip against the counter near the stove to watch Eddie sort through the candy decorations they've accumulated from all their gingerbread kits, lazily exiting out of the holiday playlist he found on his iPad to scroll through one of his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His sense of smell is assaulted by the scent of cinnamon and sugar, the latter of which is because Eddie took one look at all the watery frosting packets and decided to toss them in favor of making some of their own. It's too simple to screw up, so he insisted on doing it by himself. Richie—watching Eddie mix powdered sugar, milk, and cream cheese in a bowl—is weirdly proud of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's also weirdly proud of the elementary school level decorations they'd hung up all around the house, some of it (shiny red and green garland dangling from the ceiling, white paper snowflakes stuck to the cupboards, a rug in front of the back door that's adorned with a snowman who seems almost evil due to how the fibers are aligned) in his line of sight during this very moment. It's cheap and thrown together (unlike the tree in the living room, which he and Eddie had gone all out for), especially for two people who do quite well for themselves, but he wouldn't have it any other way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie taps a song that piques his interest, an iconic guitar and drum duo spilling into the room from the tablet's speakers. Eddie pauses mid-stir to stare at Richie in annoyance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ben's gonna call any minute," he reminds, having made good on his late-night promise to rope their friend into helping them design a sprawling gingerbread mansion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie raises the volume with a silly simper and immediately begins singing along with the lyrics as they come.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Guess who just got back today! Them wild-eyed boys that had been away. Haven't changed, haven't much to say. But man, I still think them cats are crazy!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie goes back to stirring, mouth flattening into a thin line. Richie pushes off the counter to stride toward the island.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"They were askin' if you were around. How you was, where you could be found. Told 'em you were livin' downtown, driving all the old men crazy!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's lip twitches at that line, a dimple denting his cheek. His hair is fluffy from his morning shower, since he hadn't bothered styling it, and although he's outfitted in distressed jeans and a snug blue sweater he's also got little fuzzy slippers covering his feet. Looking cozy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At home.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Richie remembers what he said about liking his voice. He hadn't meant singing, exactly, but still. Close enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"The boys are back in town, the boys are back in town! I said the boys are back in toooow-ow-wow-own!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughing at his badly drawn-out syllable is a prestigious award he's always worked (too) hard to deserve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't leave me hangin', Eds, c'mon!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Quit being stupid," Eddie retorts, eyes crinkling fondly. He thrusts the bowl into Richie's arms. "Cover this and put it in the fridge. It's supposed firm up while I sort through all this junk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie does what he asks with a bob of his head, spinning on his heel to grab some saran wrap before sliding the frosting onto a shelf in the refrigerator, the magnets connected to the stainless steel doors sliding a few inches when he slams them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You know that chick that used to dance a lot? Every night she'd be on the floor, shakin' what she got,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie sings again. He sidles up to Eddie on his side of the island and begins helping him tear open little clear bags to pull out fondant and colorful candies, following Eddie's lead by putting them in whatever piles he designates. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Man, when I tell you she was cool she was red hot. I mean, she was steamin'."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pops a round peppermint into Richie's mouth without warning, shutting him up temporarily. Richie allows it. He even acts quickly enough to lick the tips of Eddie's fingers before he can jerk away, grinning at the dusty shade of pink coloring Eddie's cheeks. He masks it with a scowl and wipes the saliva onto Richie's shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"These things don't come with actual gingerbread cookies, y'know," Eddie mumbles. Still sucking on his mint, all Richie can do is hum. "That means you're gonna have to make some 'cause I sure as hell won't. I mean, we're not about to do all this work for </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I want something edible out of this whole thing, and the shit they give you is hard as rocks. And the little ball candies are gross."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I thought you liked balls," he chirps, shifting the mint around in his mouth with a swirling tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie winks when Eddie huffs and twists to face him, pointing a finger in his face to say, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> start. You know what I mean, they're the cheapest shit ever! Do you have stuff to make cookies?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, yeah. I thought of everything, your highness. Don't worry about it. I'll stay up late making 'em just for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I wanna help decorate."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's frown is precious. Richie pinches his cheeks—both sets—and nearly chokes when Eddie elbows him in the stomach. It's worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, you can be my sous chef. Or, like, whatever the baking equivalent to that is. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> if you let me decorate Gingerbread Eddie. Oh, shit—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Gingerbreddie!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ugh. Please do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>make that a thing. But alright, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> get to decorate gingerbread </span>
  <em>
    <span>you."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Go for it," Richie agrees, biting into the mint way before he should. Eddie cringes at the crunching sound. "There's no way you could make this—" He uses a finger to circle around his face and torso, "look like any more of a trainwreck."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's mild, as far as self-deprecating jokes go, but it still very much is one; something Richie often resorts to when his bravado and show of overconfidence gets too exhausting to keep up. He doesn't have to, with Eddie. He can be any version of himself he wants, even if it makes Eddie frown, which it sometimes does. It's less cute this time. More perturbed. Richie smiles sincerely, touched by Eddie's displeasure from such thoughts, before launching right back into more of the song. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Spread the word around! Guess who's back in town. You spread the word around…"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie grabs the garbage can to throw the wrappers in. Richie hands him a dinner tray so he can stack all the square pieces onto it, eyes shining as Eddie sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, toes tapping to the beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Friday nights they'll be dressed to kill, down at Dino's Bar and Grill</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The drink will flow and blood will spill—"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie is moving chairs away from the round breakfast table when he hears Eddie's voice suddenly joining in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"And if the boys wanna fight, you better let 'em. That jukebox in the corner, blasting out my favorite song! The nights are gettin' warmer, it won't be long. Won't be long 'til summer comes, now that the boys are here again! The boys are back in town, boys are back in town! The boys are back in toooow-ow-wow-own!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs as he sings and so does Richie, the two of them smiling like idiots, gliding around the kitchen in sync to get things in order. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A phone rings while the last of the song plays, their voices dying out immediately upon hearing the shrill beeps. Eddie swipes at his screen without looking, a habit Richie knows he formed due to an overreliance on his oversized car's bluetooth capabilities, and answers reflexively: "Edward Kaspbrak speaking."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie mimics the greeting quietly, doing his best Eddie impression, which isn't too bad. Eddie sticks his tongue out briefly before lighting up at the voice on the other end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, hey Ben!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You would've known it was him if you paid attention," Richie teases, the speaker easily carrying his voice. "That's why you get so many spam callers. Hiya, Benny!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm used to the console in my Escalade," Eddie complains, gesturing for Richie to turn the music down. The song has switched over to something from Oingo Boingo, so he doesn't mind turning it all the way off. "Thanks for doing this, man. I know it's kind of stupid</span>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You're </span>
  </em>
  <span>kind of stupid."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
  <span>but it should be fun. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shh!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, no problem. I think it's sweet." Richie rolls his eyes at the same time Eddie does, though both of their mouths are quicked at the corners. "Wish I would've thought to do this with Bev. I think she'd love it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, go ahead! I won't even charge you. Love Guru discount." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure, Rich." Ben chuckles. "You guys ready for me? I drew up some plans…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sketch is simple, a boxy design with some dormers and chimneys and arches; easy for beginners working with small, breakable items but still interesting to look at. He even added a few decorative ideas, though most of the plan is blank to allow for Richie and Eddie's personal creativity to shine through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben begins directing them on how to start a solid foundation with thick gingerbread squares and even thicker frosting, helping them utilize the most of their essential supplies early on so things (hopefully) don't fall apart later. Richie insists they cut into some of the pieces to simulate windows rather than just outline them on the front like </span>
  <em>
    <span>plebs,</span>
  </em>
  <span> causing Eddie to go on a rant about how you'd be able to see inside where there won't be anything but some smaller rectangles for support and how that would look </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Richie needs to think about this shit before throwing out ideas all willy nilly, complete with his small hand bisecting the air. Richie's solution is to put yellow fondant behind the quote-unquote windows to simulate light, which earns approval from Ben </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>(begrudgingly) Eddie, so that's what they try to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie made a ridiculous amount of frosting, which they use liberally, binding everything together like glue and counting on the remainder to hold the decor and act as snow on all the eaves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes over an hour to get the basic structure settled and then an hour more to start building a second story, and by the time they get to the roofing Bev has joined Ben on camera to laugh at their hideous looking cookie mansion. They hang up the call once it's time to create the finer details, promising to send pics in the group chat after Ben insists on seeing the final product. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchen is filled with the sound of bickering rather than music, candy clinking on the island as they go back and forth for handfuls of whatever they need. The spatula scrapes against the bowl at almost a rhythmic pace, the voices of Richie's neighbors in their backyard filtering in from beneath the door. He smears frosting onto Eddie's nose and proceeds to kiss it off, going warm all over because there's no one around to tell him he can't. Not even Eddie, who wears a pinched expression but stares up at Richie with a gaze that's pure liquid love. They fight over what should go where and laugh about whatever stupid stories either of them thinks to tell, and before they know it they've wasted half the day creating something that a ten year old could probably do better. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it</span>
  </em>
  <span> 'cause it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>theirs.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"My back hurts," Eddie groans at the end of their activity, throwing down a spatula like it's a weapon he no longer has use for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. My fuckin' </span>
  <em>
    <span>knees</span>
  </em>
  <span>, man. Shit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wipe the stickiness from their fingers</span>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
  <span>or lick, in Richie's case, which Eddie gags at</span>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
  <span>and blink at their creation with strained, droopy eyes. Richie's stomach is ready to eat itself, having not been filled since the french toast brunch he cooked after their lengthy lie-in. Eddie's been popping those nasty candy balls into his mouth for the past five minutes, so he must be starving too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pizza?" he suggests, watching Eddie snap pictures of their monstrosity of a mansion with his tongue poking out between his teeth. Ben's plan had been sound, but Richie and Eddie were always like bulls in a China shop when attempting to get anything done as a duo. No doubt the results are a bit iffy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is the dough gluten free? Last time I ate deep dish I had to shit a ton. I mean, I don't think I actually have an intolerance, but trying to get back into eating whatever I want without worrying about the ingredients hasn't been one hundred percent successful."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll make sure you don't shit your pants, yeah. Anything else? Cheese and pep okay? Or do you wanna go full Chicagoan and try the Italian sausage."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sausage sounds good. Can you do half mozzarella? That's what I'm used to. And add black olives."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oooh, yeah, okay. Let's get weird with it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not weird! That's a common topping, Richie!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's on the edge of being riled when he catches onto the fact that it's purposeful bait. He gives Richie a wry smile and drops his shoulders, visibly calming when Richie trails his fingertips across Eddie's prickly jaw to pat his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You always do that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you're so cute when I do." Eddie's crinkly grin makes Richie feel incredibly warm. "So, pizza."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And a movie."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Black Christmas?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"A horror film? Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>horror? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jesus Christ, Richie, we're not even six months out! You and Bill need to pay for some extra therapy." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Slashers aren't even that bad, but fine. We'll go for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Home Alone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The perfect amount of fun and psychotic.</span>
  <em>
    <span>"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will you do the filthy animal thing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes Richie perk up, always filling with pride anytime Eddie takes interest in what used to be a dream and is now his life's work. As much as he might hate some of Richie's material and as much as he might pretend to dislike the rest, he has always been supportive, finding him at least the </span>
  <em>
    <span>slightest</span>
  </em>
  <span> bit amusing when all is said and done. It's almost as if Eddie has always been his biggest fan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie is on cloud nine, bobbing his head in agreement, tapping on one of his favorite nearby parlors to place an order. He smiles until his cheeks hurt as Eddie bounds out of the room to queue the movie, thumbs flying across his own screen to show the other Losers what they spent their afternoon doing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As someone on the other line answers with a standard greeting, Richie has an errant thought that this might be how he'll spend future holidays for the rest of his life. He sends a psychic </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> out into the universe for whoever might still be listening. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie is concerned. Not for his health or sanity or emotional well-being, this time, and not even because he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> unbelievably horny for Eddie no matter where they are or what they're doing. No. Richie is concerned for how his gifts will be received. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not that he thinks Eddie won't </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> them. Of course he will, Richie thought too damn hard about what to pick that fit within their set quantity and budget. And he succeeded. Mostly. It isn't like he bought him a fucking car or anything, so he's sure he'll be forgiven for going a few extra bucks over the agreed amount. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that's part of the problem. Has he played it too safe? Too sappy? Not sappy enough? Has he relied too much on nostalgia or what he believes he knows of Eddie and not what's actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>true? </span>
  </em>
  <span>It's hard to say and he won't really know until Eddie opens his gifts in</span>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie surreptitiously slips his phone out of his pocket to check the time—approximately fifteen hours.</span>
</p><p><span>It's Christmas Eve and they've done nothing but lounge around all day, drinking rum and texting their friends. They've finally sifted through what the Losers sent them</span> <span>(a fancy marble bar set from Bev, a big book of "Ad Libs" that Bill handcrafted himself specifically with the group in mind, a projector from Ben that could simulate stars on the ceiling in too many colors to count, and shadow boxes filled with odds and ends from their childhood that Mike had managed to duplicate for the whole group. Even Stan sends them letters detailing how grateful he and Patty are to have such important people in their lives, with pictures placed neatly in the fold. And then there's all the gifts Richie had gotten on his doorstep the past week, most of which have been outrageously expensive goodie bags that aren't so much Christmas presents as they are "hope you're not dead-slash crazy-slash retired" ones. There's a weird painting from none other than Jim Carrey that Eddie loses his shit over for ten minutes straight. It's so cute. Richie cackles the entire time, then offers to give it to him as a bonus.</span></p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Eddie eagerly agrees, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>no take backs</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his tone easily heard. "You can hang it in the hall for me. Use a level. You have one, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And—</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He wants to keep it here. For when he moves in. Richie feels a flash of heat course through his veins. If Eddie catches Richie biting down on a tender smile, he says nothing of it, instead diving into a weird box of bath bombs with poorly hidden interest. ("They'll clog the pipes," he warns, even as he sets a few aside to try later on.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They take shots of rum and bourbon throughout the day, Eddie indulging in the alcohol more than he usually would because eggnog is fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>gross</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Richie gives himself some leeway for the time being after cutting way back these last few months. Richie's gingerbread men are eaten too, with only the versions of themselves they decorated sometime after midnight being spared so they can continue leaning against the main attraction still resting on the kitchen table. (Richie had used red fondant for Gingerbreddie's shorts and frosting tinted with yellow coloring for a shirt, picking two brown M&amp;M's for Eddie's soulful eyes and strips of black licorice for his hair, snipping off the very ends to use as dimples and brows. Eddie, for his part, had given his version of Richie blue shorts and a yellow shirt with white polka dots and buttons, taking the rest of the licorice to create tiny glasses that could fit over horizontal slits that represented closed eyes to match the big red smile he added last, after shaving some baking chocolate to to stick on the head as hair. He had to use frosting to do that, of course, thus leading Richie right into a joke about how it looked like Gingerbreddie jizzed on his head. Eddie responded by smacking Richie on the ass with a spatula. He swears it left a bruise.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're on their phones now, playing some kind of drawing game with their friends, since it's late enough for everyone to be in bed but not exactly asleep. The Losers threaten to kick Richie out if he doesn't stop putting dicks in every picture. Stan is the only one who follows through with the threat, telling Richie he got what he deserved and also thanking him for the Hanukkah well wishes, all in one text. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The game ends the later it gets, leaving Richie and Eddie to entertain themselves. Spread out across the couch as they are, the TV playing low in the background while time ticks on, they have nothing to do but kiss, slow and lazy, until they can barely move at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's nothing to think about here; not the interviews Richie did at the beginning of the month that garnered him so much attention Steve has taken to texting him at least once every day with options on what to do next (including making an appearance at the big New Year's Eve ball drop in NYC, though he declined full-stop in order to cap off Eddie's visit with a figurative and probably literal bang); not Myra's bitter emails and concerned calls; not the nightmares that disturb them during the darkest hours when they alternate between who is having them and who is jolted awake by grumbling and tossing; not the jacket in the back of Richie's closet or the final echoes Eddie still has waiting for him in Manhattan or the remnants of Derry that resurface every so often to join the new memories they're excited to make. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's as if time has stopped during this season, rounding off a pretty shitty year with something spectacular</span>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
  <span>giving Richie time to breathe, time to bask in the love he shares with Eddie and the love Eddie shares with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> through kisses and caresses, conversations and laughter and fun. They get to relax. Explore each other in as many ways as possible. Cultivate a relationship that's been a long time in the making and will hopefully have an even longer run, without expiration.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie licks into Eddie's mouth and Eddie accepts the intrusion with a groan, meeting his slippery slide with an eager prod, the hinge of his jaw loosening to allow more access. Richie constantly surprised by how much Eddie seems to enjoy making out. He's surprised by how much Eddie seems to enjoy sex, too (even the messy bits, </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>the messy bits), but the necking? Hands roaming, teeth nibbling, tongues dancing, lips suckling; the feeling of beard burn, of tensed muscles, of gentle sighs—all of that and more. Eddie always glows with it, taking everything in stride and adding so much more, keeping Richie centered while simultaneously shooting him off into the stratosphere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sex with Eddie is the most intimate Richie has ever felt—his lackluster past encounters aren't even on the same scale—but </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissing</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie is somehow also on an entirely different level, as if their souls meld into one each and every time they comnect, no matter how briefly. Being so up close and personal with no goal or end in sight is a vulnerability they not only share but also strive for, bathing in the emotions they read within the mysterious flecks of each other's irises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie loves kissing Eddie—all day every day, twenty-four-seven, three-six-five—so it truly pains him to pull away with a resounding </span>
  <em>
    <span>smack</span>
  </em>
  <span> to glance down at the clock on his phone, but he has to. It'll be Christmas soon and in a few hours they'll open gifts. And although they set parameters and decided to keep expectations low, Richie is still worrying over his choices. He needs to assemble Eddie's "third" present—hasn't, yet, since Eddie was more likely to find it that way—and he'd rather do it without the threat of his little gremlin sneaking up on him for a sneak peek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What, am I boring you?" Eddie demands, eyes flashing with insecurity he can't quite hide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No! What the hell? No, Eddie, hey. This is like heaven for me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His frown quickly quirks into a pleased smile, spine straightening against the soft cushions of the couch. He releases the grasp he'd had on Richie's shirt and tries to smooth out the wrinkles. It doesn't work. Richie kisses his temple in thanks anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then why are you stopping to look at your shitty phone?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aww, is someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>needy?</span>
  </em>
  <span> You want me bad, baby, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Eddie hisses. It's probably meant as a reprimand but sounds more like a plea. They both squirm. Richie can't get hard right now, he's got stuff to take care of!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And my phone's not shitty, it's top of the line </span>
  <em>
    <span>new</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thanks to </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> dumb ass."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not my fault you fumbled it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck yes. Talk sporty to me, baby." He dives in for another kiss, which Eddie accepts with a grumble, nails scraping at Richie's scalp, legs unfolding to wrap awkwardly around his waist as they slump sideways. Much to their joint annoyance, Richie pulls away again. "I think it's time for bed, yeah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie draws his head back at that breathy suggestion, one brow rising up his forehead in question. His gaze is glassy already, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>making Richie wish he meant it in a sexy way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not even midnight. Or do you mean, like—" He swallows, dropping his voice to a whisper to ask: "are we gonna have </span>
  <em>
    <span>sex?"</span>
  </em>
  <span> like it's something they've never done before. Jesus, Richie doesn't want to think about how hot that gets him, Eddie staring at him with wide eyes and puffy lips, acting like he's never seen another man's dick before when he'd had his own all up inside Richie the previous night, fucking him deep while his hand jerked Richie to completion. He supposes Eddie does get a little shy if they talk about it out of context, but during the act itself? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh ho ho.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes a breath and smooths his thumbs across Eddie's cheekbones, brushing off a stray lash. He'd make a wish if he didn't already have everything he could ever ask for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I hate to say this, but not right now. It's just, uh... if you don't go to bed Santa won't give you any presents!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie blinks (once, twice), then furrows his brows and twists his mouth. He gives an angry flick to the tip of Richie's ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not funny, asshole. I was, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>nine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That's a totally normal age for that sort of thing!"</span>
</p><p><span>"Okay, let me rephrase. If you don't go to bed now then </span><em><span>I </span></em><span>won't</span> <span>give you any presents."</span></p><p>
  <span>"Why is what you give me dependent on my sleep schedule?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie knew he would question it, he just hoped he wouldn't. Rolling his eyes, Richie admits, "Because I have to finish putting something together, alright, you nosy little shit?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie nearly headbutts Richie in his scramble to sit up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean? </span>
  </em>
  <span>What the fuck did you get me that you have to assemble? We had rules, Richie! You can't just—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, it's nothing big, I swear. Maybe I went a little over-budget, but we set it pretty low so it wasn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not like—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grins, proud and cheesy, at how well Eddie knows him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. It's nothing extravagant, s'not a big deal or anything. I won't show you up—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As if you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>could."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just want it to look nice. Presentation is pretty much a quarter of what makes this shit fun, so let me do what I want!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie gives him a considering look, one that slowly shifts into a sunny smile, the jewel-toned lights from the tree casting striking shadows of blue and purple hues across Eddie's features. It's pitch-black outside, wind howling, and the TV is playing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Forensic Files</span>
  </em>
  <span> on a low volume, but when Eddie places his hands on Richie's neck to trace his index fingers over the shells of Richie's ears, he can't focus on anything except the delicious shiver that wracks through him, as well as the faint hint of cologne clinging to Eddie's collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This better not be a prank."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie hums, leans forward to kiss him sweetly. It's not quite a peck, but something a little firmer. Lingering. Then he slaps Richie's shoulder and pushes onto his feet with a grunt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll go to bed." A small patch of skin near his hips peeks out when his shirt rides up on a stretch. Richie pokes right above his waistband, causing him to flinch and swat at his hand. "But don't take too long."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie watches him disappear up the staircase (the old saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>'hate to see him go, love to watch him leave' </span>
  </em>
  <span>entering his mind) before scrambling after him, taking the path that heads down instead, where he tumbles into the basement. He pats around for the switch on the wall, overhead lights flickering to life, and makes sure the door is firmly shut behind. Then, racing over toward his chosen hiding spot (behind a stack of containers in his hardly touched storage area), Richie pulls out his unmarked bags and the large chalkboard tub he plans on situating everything inside. The other two gifts he got Eddie are already wrapped and nestled under the tree, but this one won't be so easily concealed. There are too many components, for one thing, and the shape is going to be a bitch to wrap cellophane around, let alone the kitschy paper they picked up at Rite Aid. But he'll do it. He's determined. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes each item—eight in total, not counting the reusable tin base—carefully in hand, arranging them around the tub in a manner he thinks looks best. Richie has had a lot of gift baskets delivered to him in his day, including this very Christmas, so he knows what he's doing, but this one needs to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>special</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him nearly an hour to complete his task and once he's finished he takes it quietly up to the ground level, ducking back behind the tree to hide it under thick, fake branches (</span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> trees are a severe fire hazard, as told by Eddie, who also couldn't stand the smell of pine). With a final sigh to himself, smiling at the very meager gifts around the skirt, Richie steps on the clicker to turn the lights out and creeps up the stairs, making his way toward the bed he and Eddie share. He falls asleep peacefully, after Eddie's snuffling body seeks out his warmth on auto-pilot, and stays that way all through the night. Nightmares don't dare disturb him tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie groans at the feeling of being shaken awake. His sleep-addled brain deems the disturbance an earthquake at first, but no, it's just one very persistent Eddie Kaspbrak. An easy mistake to make, considering they both have the ability to rock Richie's world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Wha</span>
  </em>
  <span>," he grumbles after the jostling becomes too much to ignore. His mouth is dry, eyes practically glued shut. He sniffs to clear his stuffy nose and swears he smells something sweet permeating the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie. Richie, wake up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Time s'it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ten after six."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuuuuuck," Richie bemoans, rolling onto his stomach to get away. "The right answer is 'too early to be awake,' you little psycho." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christmas</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Eddie insists, like that excuses the ungodly hour. Richie is strictly a night owl, thank you very much. He's certain Eddie knows that. "And I made breakfast."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that perks him up a tad. He tries again to identify the smell. It's too far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie peeks one eye open to stare blearily at Eddie, who leans over the bed, holding a steadying hand on Richie's hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You didn't blow up the kitchen?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, dickwad. I used your waffle iron." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"... I have a waffle iron?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Apparently." Eddie huffs, gives him another shake. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Riiiichiieee</span>
  </em>
  <span>, get up!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Goddammit, you're adorable."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie reaches out to the smaller man, locking an arm around his neck to pull him down, burying his face in Eddie's collarbone. It's slightly bared by the pajama top that slides across one shoulder. "Ten more minutes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Five."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're killin' me, smalls."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stop saying that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A hot dog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz," Richie mumbles in a lazy Bogart impression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" Eddie laughs. He allows himself to be guided by Richie, flopping down onto his side to face Richie's turned head, fingers wrapping around the forearm that snakes around his waist. "That's not a quote from the movie, right? They're just tangentially related?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, no, it's not a quote from the movie. It's freaking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bogie,</span>
  </em>
  <span> man." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bogey is golf, Rich. Not baseball."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy balls." Richie lifts his head to glare incredulously. "You're fuckin' with me, right? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I can't handle this right now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, I'm fucking with you, moron," Eddie says through a beautiful crinkly grin. "Didn't know you had such a boner for Humphrey, geez."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's 'cause I don't. My boners are strictly for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eddie, my love," Richie teases, though he darts his gaze across Eddie's expression to make sure there's no objection. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>If</span>
  </em>
  <span> you want 'em."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie squirms atop the sheets, nails tickling the hair on Richie's arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What, your boners? Hmm. Yeah, I guess so," he replies roughly, meeting Richie's stare with a sly sidelong glance. "But </span>
  <em>
    <span>later</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I'm not gonna let my waffles go to waste when they actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> taste like burnt shit, so get up!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You put the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dick</span>
  </em>
  <span> in </span>
  <em>
    <span>dictator</span>
  </em>
  <span>, man, I'll tell you that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That doesn't technically make sense, you know. I mean, there's no K in dictator. And if you're going for d-i-c, you should know that's an acronym for disseminated intravascular coagulation, so..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Inseminated-what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dis</span>
  </em>
  <span>seminated. You know that's what I said, sicko."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Siri, define—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stop!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hmph. I dunno what that is and I don't care. Besides, ever heard of a pun? The K in dicktator is silent. It stands for Kaspbrak."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then why are you laughing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not," he protests, chest shaking with the laughter he denies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiles into his pillow, stretching out across the bed. Eddie's fingers behind carding through his hair. He shivers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh huh. Fine, then cut me some slack. It's way too early for… pretty much anything."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've been on tour before, you big baby, and you do shows during the day, which means you're definitely capable of getting up at a respectable time—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you still stalking me? That's so sexy, baby."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"—unless Steve has you running on empty. And I don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>stalk</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mhm. Well, Steve's not a dic-with-a-K-tator, unlike </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If I'm worse than a manager then I'd advise you to get a new one."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nah, he's alright. We're cool. I mean, if </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanna take his place, then I'll fire him right now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wouldn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Steve is good at what he does and he's been nice to have around, regardless. If anything he'd just have two managers. He could probably make use of that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's mean," Eddie says, sounding positively delighted. He likes it when Richie plays favorites. Always has. "And tempting. But no, I'd rather keep what little sanity I have left, thank you. And anyway, this isn't exactly fun for me either. I could've benefitted from a few more Z's."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then what's all this about?" Richie scoffs, finally sitting up because Eddie is no longer using his quiet voice. He's stopped petting Richie's hair, too. There's no winning this battle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because I want my presents!" Eddie sharply replies, so completely factual that it takes Richie a few beats to process the absurdity of a forty year old man being so excited for Christmas morning. When it finally hits, Richie cracks up with a full-on belly laugh and Eddie wastes no time joining in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, alright, I'm officially awake.. Waffles, presents, naptime, blowjobs—</span>
  <em>
    <span>go!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakfast is good, for as simple as it is, and what makes the whole thing even better is how </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleased</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie seems with himself, sitting up straight in his chair with a dimply smirk while Richie stuffs his face and pats his belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very slowly, however, Eddie's pride and amusement morphs into visible annoyance as his phone continually vibrates and buzzes atop the table, signaling calls and texts and alerts for multiple voicemails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can answer it," Richie says, not sure if Eddie has suddenly decided to become polite in his presence. Or maybe he's attempting to shirk some responsibility. Richie would be proud if Eddie didn't look so constipated. "Go outside or whatever, if you don't want me listening. I don't care."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, he cares a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If Eddie's been going crazy in New York with a bunch of gay Grindr hookups, he'd really like to know so he can proceed to throw himself off the nearest bridge. Luckily (hallelujah), it doesn't seem as if that's the case. For one thing, he and Eddie are pretty much </span>
  <em>
    <span>exclusive</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and for another… he just looks positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoyed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And not in the usual way that Richie tends to inspire, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It's either work or—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Myra keeps calling."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dude, how many times are you gonna block her and then pussy out?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I block her when I'm angry because it makes me feel better, but it's not something I can just </span>
  <em>
    <span>do, </span>
  </em>
  <span>uh, permanently. We have to communicate, for the divorce. Like, I wanted to do everything through lawyers, but… I'm married to her, Rich. I've </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> married to her. For a while. And no matter how fucking awful we were to each other—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Guarantee she takes the gold in that department," Richie mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighs and massages his temples. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. But she's worried about me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh oh," Richie says, though what he really means is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>like your mom?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not—" Eddie starts. Stops. He taps his fork against the empty plate and thinks. "Okay, maybe it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Overboard, or something. She keeps messaging me to say 'pick up your phone' instead of just typing whatever the fuck she wants to talk about, which is pretty much summarized in the fucking voicemails to begin with. She sent me a gift, did I </span>
  <em>
    <span>get it?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Even though she knows I'm not fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>in </span>
  </em>
  <span>New York, I'm in Chicago, and I told her that a thousand times. And I don't want her gift because I didn't get her anything, obviously, so accepting something is gonna make me feel like I owe her, which is probably what she's aiming for. And she keeps telling me—she keeps saying, whoever I'm with isn't gonna take care of me, like I can't fucking take care of </span>
  <em>
    <span>myself</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And I know she means it, like, not just whoever I'm visiting, but whoever I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>with. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She knows it's a—a man," Eddie stutters, tilting his chin down to stare at Richie through his lashes. Not to be coy, but because it's hard to look head on when faced with such changes. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She knows I have a—a </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and I'm lucky she hasn't tried bringing that up in the divorce. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Infidelity</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She's probably humiliated."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes Richie's blood boil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? Well, fuck her, man," he spits, remembering all the times and all the people who made </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel humiliated for far more inescapable reasons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie, with wide eyes and a wry smile, replies: "No thanks." Richie grins through the biting irritation. "And it's all about, oh, remember not to eat walnuts 'cause you're allergic, but I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>, actually, she just thinks I am 'cause I told her I was 'cause my </span>
  <em>
    <span>mother</span>
  </em>
  <span> made me believe it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Turn your phone off," Richie suggests with a shrug. "You're on vacation, you don't need it for work, and you have a laptop if you gotta check your emails for anything. Plus, I mean, if you wanna talk to the Losers you can just use mine, I don't care. Just turn yours off until she chills. Or don't. If you wanna put up with that shit until you explode, be my guest. Your angry face is sexy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie chews his lip for a moment, then smooths over it with his tongue. That's a habit he usually doesn't like a partake in but Richie certainly does, watching raptly as it happens once more before he nods his head and holds the button down to make the screen go black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wow, okay," Richie mumbles because he hadn't really thought Eddie would do it. He hadn't really thought Eddie would do a lot of things, yet here they are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both return to their waffles, enjoying the calmer atmosphere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben sends a video to Richie's phone ten minutes later of his and Bev's dog wearing antlers and a sweater, bouncing around in some snow with his tongue lolling out. Eddie leans over the table to see, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oohing</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the sight alongside Richie's </span>
  <em>
    <span>awwes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Mike sends him something too, because of course he and Ben are wide awake and chipper, but it's merely a set of photos he's taken of the sun shining through some thick gray clouds, with half his grinning face adding extra radiance to the view. Everyone else seems to be sleeping still. Richie wishes he was too, but then he sees Eddie pressed over the table, knuckles against his chin so he can hold himself up while watching Ben's dog play for the third time, and he thinks that maybe he would wake up at the crack of dawn for the rest of his life if it meant more time with Eddie, seeing him smile so softly like that. God, Richie is crazy, but so is his Eds, letting Richie plant a sloppy smooch against his cheek when his lips are sticky with syrup and his teeth haven't been brushed. It works, for them. It works very well. Sometimes Richie thinks… maybe it always would have, though it doesn't do well to dwell on what-ifs. He's got it now and he's never letting go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleaning up mostly consists of rinsing dishes off and leaving them in the sink to deal with later, and then they're moving past the gingerbread mansion to shuffle into the living room, clicking on the tree lights to wash everything in those intoxicating jewel tones. They plop onto the couch—side by side, thigh-to-thigh—with their first gifts in hand and immediately passing them over and waiting a beat to see who should start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me first," Eddie instructs. "That way you can open mine last."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It must be a doozy, if he wants the finale so bad. Richie concedes. Besides, he's a very impatient man, so watching Eddie tear into wrapping paper and then into a plain white box, throwing tissue paper into the air in a way that Stan would have an aneurysm over, satisfies some strange craving deep in his bones. </span>
  <em>
    <span>An urge to to make him happy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What Eddie yanks out is a shirt, purposefully placed front down so he has to unfold it to see the image, and when he does…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Holy shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie, no way!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes grow impossibly wider, jaw unhinging to hang slack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cool, right? I know it's not exactly the same, I didn't really have any pics for the artist to reference, but there was, uh, already a design on the interwebz we found that was pretty close, then we workshopped the rest together. I just thought, you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>vintage geek</span>
  </em>
  <span> is super in right now, according to Bev, but this would actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span> something. And it was your favorite, for awhile, so..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trails off when Eddie spins the shirt around to press against his chest, glancing down at the way it looks against himself—even now, that deep blue is so nice against his complexion—and looks up at Richie with a beaming grin. It takes his breath away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie, Richie, this is—it's incredible."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good, good. I'm, uh, I'm glad."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not even gonna ask how much you paid for this. It was probably half the budget we set, but…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But you love it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." He pulls it away to hold in his lap, fingertips gently tracing the old </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thundercats </span>
  </em>
  <span>design featuring Lion-O. "Yeah, I—I really love it, Rich. Thank you. Just…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he starts getting choked up then Richie is for </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to bawl like a baby, which it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too early for, so he steers them carefully into more neutral territory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe you should've gone for that one last. The other stuff seems kind of stupid now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, c'mon." Eddie reluctantly, after folding the shirt, sets it aside. "Do yours. But fair warning: we were seriously on the same page."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tearing into a similar rectangular box, Richie stares at his own new t-shirt in awe, snorting so loud and hard that it hurts. Even so, he follows it up with a wild laugh and strips himself immediately of what he's wearing so he can pull this masterpiece on instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jabba the Slut</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it reads in big, bold, Star Wars-y letters, accompanied by a picture of said character in a position that fits the wordplay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is amazing, Eds. Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>God. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Look at this beauty!" He points to his chest, where the shirt is stretched almost uncomfortably across his pecs. In fact, it's tight around his shoulders and tummy too. "But I gotta say, man. Either I gained some extra pounds recently or you got me the wrong size."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It fits, doesn't it?" Eddie counters with a haughty little sniff. He can't see the true color of Eddie's face in the glare of the multicolor lights, but he's willing to bet, just by the way he shifts against him, that he's blushing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you buy me a smaller size on </span>
  <em>
    <span>purpose?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jesus Christ, dude. Looks like Jabba's not the only slut around here!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie chokes on his saliva. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not!</span>
  </em>
  <span> You can't—</span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I'm not! And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn't!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" That last part is said with a little less conviction. "I got your size! It's not my fault it runs smaller than usual." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rather than be scrutinized under Richie's narrowed eyes, he scrambles away to grab the next two gifts, cocking his head momentarily when he spots his third beneath the tree—a very small, flat square—but not another from Richie. He says nothing of it, though it looks like he really wants to ask, and merely resettles on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I like the shirt, if you couldn't tell," Richie murmurs just as Eddie begins to unwrap the next one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thought you would. It looks really good, Rich."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, my beer gut and baby man boobs really do it for you, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scrunches his nose and rolls his eyes, index finger slipping beneath a line of tape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stop it. You know what I think."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he does, yeah. Can recall all the instances, thus far, that Eddie has growled about Richie being </span>
  <em>
    <span>big </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice cracks embarrassingly when he squeaks an </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie isn't wowed by the next item, but he wasn't meant to be, is appropriately appreciative. He gets as excited over custom turquoise New Balance running shoes the way someone might when finding out they won the lottery. Eddie even tries them on, stomps around the room excitedly, jogs in place. It gives Richie a great view of his thighs and ass, so they're both happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next reveal is a duffel for Richie. But it's not just any old piece of luggage, no, it's a hard-bottomed nylon bag that's weighty and slick and made with lots of pockets. Waterproof, Eddie says, with durable hardware and six different lash points for carrying, plus padded straps. The one Richie has been carrying for years is what he took with him to Derry, which Eddie must've found incredibly pathetic if his chosen replacement is so high-end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're worried about the cost of a shirt when you got me </span>
  <em>
    <span>this?" </span>
  </em>
  <span>He can't help but ask, marveling over a piece of travel equipment like he never thought he would before—hence the old overused duffel he bought cheap in his early thirties and never tossed out. "You definitely went over budget, Eds," he gleefully surmises. Eddie rolls his eyes but smiles softly the longer Richie studies the bag, genuinely excited by all its features. He usually throws shit inside his luggage and hops on a plane, but just studying this duffel makes him want to be more organized. Eddie's goal, no doubt, so Richie supposes he feels like he won something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You travel a lot, right?" Richie nods at his obvious point, remaining stuck on how thoughtful such a gift is. And practical. Very much Edward Kaspbrak. "And now it'll be easier. So you're welcome."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that's not all! Oh no, because hidden in one of the side pockets rests a book of dad jokes, to quote—</span>
  <em>
    <span>help write your new act</span>
  </em>
  <span>—unquote. Richie can't even </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretend</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be bothered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not a dad, man. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Unless…</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dramatically waggling brows do nothing for Eddie, except make him roll his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't even go there, Trashmouth. I'm four months older than you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you wear it so well!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then comes the moment of truth. Richie winks as he hops to his feet, bustling around the coffee table and the tree to grab the medium sized tub wrapped in crinkly cellophane and tied off with a wonky ribbon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie, you asshole," Eddie complains the moment he sees the oversized gift. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, ah, ah! Just… open it before you go in on me, Mr. Bougie Travel Man," he fires back. He's a little quieter when he adds, "I really tried here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie accepts the admission with a silent tongue. Nods jerkily, licks his lips, takes the tub onto his lap. The chalkboard front says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie's Emergency Comfort Kit</span>
  </em>
  <span> in loopy yellow letters. Richie watches Eddie's eyes scan the contents that are barely visible through the polka dot pattern holding everything in place. He retakes his seat on the couch to perch on the edge of the cushion while Eddie unties the bow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a large red blanket, a silky black robe, fuzzy socks that are striped blue and white with red toes and heels; there's a mug with a cat on it, holding a knife, amidst scribbled letters that exclaim </span>
  <em>
    <span>I AM SMALL AND SENSITIVE BUT ALSO FIGHT ME</span>
  </em>
  <span>, paired with hot chocolate K-Cups and a box of Harry London gourmet truffles for some extra flair; and, finally, there's a lavender scented diffuser next to a book of funny crossword puzzles that </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be more entertaining than the ones Eddie likes to do in The New York Times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's quite a bit, in terms of what they agreed upon, but it's also nowhere near enough. Richie would give Eddie the world, if he could, and because he can't he'll have to settle for some lazy day incentives. The least he deserves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've been through a lot—I wanna say since Derry, but realistically, like, your whole entire life. Out of all the things I wanted to get, I kept coming back to that. A way for you to relax. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. So I thought, hey, this could be cool. But maybe it's stupid, I dunno."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not," Eddie whispers. His voice sounds so small but the look he sends is monumental. "Rich, this is… really freaking thoughtful? I don't even know what to say."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's a first," Richie teases, but there's no real humor or bite to it. No gumption. He's just relieved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie doesn't even respond. He painstakingly piles everything back into the tub, careful not to smudge the chalk letters on the front, and sets it on the coffee table. Then, turning to Richie and taking his face in both of his hands, he shakes his head with a crooked little smile and leans up to press a kiss to his forehead. Richie burns with it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yearns</span>
  </em>
  <span> with it, and drags Eddie in by the scruff of his neck as he begins to pull back, connecting their lips firmly together. It's short and tame, and while Richie always has a simmering ache for </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> he is easily content here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pecks him a final time, for good measure. He reaches out for the robe, slips it on over his pajamas like a dork, leaving it untied as if it were some type of kimono, and grabs the socks to replace the ones he's currently wearing, wiggling his toes out in front of him. He stands after a moment to grab the final gift under the tree, freezes, stares down at what he's cradling in his hands with a thinned mouth. Nodding to himself, Eddie spins around and sits next to Richie again, thrusting it into his hands with a nervously determined expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie isn't sure what he's expecting when he opens the box; even after he sees what's inside he's still confused. Because it's a pair of cufflinks, silver in color but made of brass, formed in the shape of envelopes. They're unique, for sure, but Richie, as someone who rarely dresses formally enough to need such an accessory, can't quite hide his confusion. Luckily Eddie is amused by his befuddlement and not angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They have hinges," he informs, pointing out the round circles at the corners. "There's a secret inside."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's brows shoot up to his hairline. He spares Eddie a quick glance and then grabs the left cufflink, using his thumb to prop the flap open. Just like he said, there's a small piece of wood inside, dark letters burned into the grain. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We make each other brave. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie feels those words like a hit to the chest, breath hitching before coming out shaky and slow. He glances up at Eddie again, who is smiling awkwardly and fidgeting with the tie on his robe. All he can do is look back down and swallow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving onto the right cufflink, Richie pulls out the next piece of wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>R + E</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon the sight of those familiar letters (and symbol), Richie nearly drops the jewelry. He can hardly think, let alone speak. The memory of carving that on the bridge never leaves him, now that he has it, nor does the one of Eddie helping him redo it some four months prior. Richie never thought it'd be as significant as it is to anyone but himself. He's so pleased to have been wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just, um—" Eddie stutters, taking Richie's prolonged silence as something </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Truly, Richie is only speechless; a rare occurrence but not unheard of where Eddie is concerned. "When you have your first show, and it's one hundred percent yours, you could wear those. If you wanted. And it's like a reminder that I… that I'm here. I'll be in the crowd, obviously, if you want me to be, but this way it'll be like I'm up there with you. I thought it might be easier, if you had the reminder. That I love you. And that I'm proud of you, the same way you're proud of me. And it'd be just for us, no one else would see it, but you'd know whenever you looked down, what's inside. And what I mean or—or what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean, to me. Maybe it would help..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie clutches the cufflinks gently in the dip of his palm, cradling them in a loose fist. They weigh almost nothing, physically, but emotionally it feels as if he's holding an anchor, one that doesn't drag him down but keeps him settled, </span>
  <em>
    <span>home,</span>
  </em>
  <span> locked in place and stabilizing everything when there's too much chaos in his head. Eddie amplifies that mayhem sometimes, and yet he can just as easily smooth it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wraps his arms around Eddie without warning, tugging him in close, using his free hand to card through his downy hair. His glasses are probably digging into Eddie's neck when he buries his face there, but he gets no complaints, just a hand on his back, rubbing up and down, and one at his nape for reassurance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you," he says, thicker than he had intended and far more sincere. It wouldn't be fair to be anything else right now. "Thank you, Eddie. I mean it. This is…" His eyes fill to the brim with tears, but he manages to stave off the waterworks by taking a calm, shuddering breath. Eddie squeezes his torso and rests their heads together. "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>wear them," he announces, feeling like it's obvious but Eddie goes limo in relief regardless. "I'd wear them all the fucking time, if I could."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They wouldn't be special if you did that, dork."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anything involving you is special to me, alright? Always. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I sound like Ben right now, but that's the ugly truth." He feels the vibrations of Eddie's chuckle against his front, burrows in further when a thumb sweeps tenderly over the knob of his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's a </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> truth," Eddie defends, nosing at Richie's temple, right above an arm of his glasses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie should probably thank him for taking this seriously, for doing something so sweet and meaningful without tacking on their usual jokes. Richie himself had trouble giving him a </span>
  <em>
    <span>gift basket</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there's no telling what he would've had engraved on something in a moment of panic or second guessing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a big step for Eddie; as big as hounding Richie with increasingly personal questions, as big as kissing him in the middle of the night, as big as talking through it when Richie had been too scared to bring it up, as big as touching his dick and </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>his dick and letting Richie take and give and </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>; as big as Eddie pulling off his ring and tossing it over the bridge Richie had carved their initials on twenty-seven years earlier. It's another step, like visiting and wanting to move in and wanting to have more, be more. So imperfectly perfect that it's on the cusp of overwhelming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wanna walk it off?" Richie asks, pulling away to wipe at his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's pretty sure they both need something to occupy their minds after such a delicate moment. They can speak more on it later—or perhaps wearing them up on stage, where they're sure to glint in the bright lights, will be more than enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie turns to look out the nearest window, checking the weather with pursed lips. There's fog and ice on the edges of the pane—it's cold, though not unbearably so—but no slush or flakes. He hums.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought we had a set plan for how this morning was gonna go. Figures you wouldn't keep to it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure, yeah, but what's wrong with a little spontaneity, huh? We take a walk, then go back to sleep—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I want my hot chocolate first, in between."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will you share?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span>." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, hot chocolate and </span>
  <em>
    <span>then—</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p><span>"Yeah, yeah. I didn't forget about the blowjobs," Eddie interjects, shaking his head fondly. Richie hadn't assumed that'd be taken seriously and he hadn't been prepared for his Eds to say it so offhandedly either. </span><em><span>Nice.</span></em><span> Eddie scratches thoughtfully at his beard.</span> <span>Richie, who's been too lazy to shave, has a little more than stubble going on as well. Somehow Eddie makes it look way better. "Can you get our shoes and jackets? I </span><em><span>really</span></em><span> need to brush my teeth."</span></p><p>
  <span>"Of course, my good chap!" Richie winces at the crick in his back after hopping to his feet, setting the cufflinks very gently back into the box. The messages are hidden by metal flaps, but they still flash in his mind's eye, clear as a sunny day and just warming. "Let's get a move on, Eduardo. Chop, chop!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie bounces toward the stairs, taking two at a time to get up to the bedroom, where he'll use the en-suite for a quick cleanup. Richie is two seconds away from following, but first…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances around the living room, at the tree and all its mismatched decorations, at the wrappings littered across the floor near the couch, the small spread of gifts on the table. If he were to look in the kitchen he'd find a sink stacked neatly with their morning utensils, paper snowflakes hanging halfway off the cabinets, a gingerbread house with cookie versions of themselves covered in frosting that's slowly beginning to droop with the heat of the house. And if he follows Eddie up to their room, an action he begins doing now—cheeks flushed and lips stretched wide—he'll find the one thing, the one </span>
  <em>
    <span>person</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he's always wanted, always cherished (even when he was shit at showing it) foaming toothpaste at the mouth and rubbing moisturizer into his winter-dry skin with small, furious fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is the first time in his life Richie hasn't had even an </span>
  <em>
    <span>ounce</span>
  </em>
  <span> of disappointment on Christmas. And he has a feeling it'll be this way for a long, long time to come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's more than ready. He's more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>A few days later, on New Years Eve, Richie receives a package in the mail from Beverly Marsh at a return address in Nebraska. Inside are two ugly sweaters, white with gold accents for Richie and red with green accents for Eddie (</span>
  <em>
    <span>"so he can't complain about them matching,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> the attached letter reads, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"because they don't."</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one for Eddie has </span>
  <em>
    <span>EXPRESS YOUR ELF</span>
  </em>
  <span> stitched across the front, above an elf wearing a green dress with a cat held in his arms, a clear nod to Madonna that Eddie sneeringly snipes about being incredibly </span>
  <em>
    <span>stereotypical</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That doesn't stop him from pulling it on over his head, however, even has he records a ranting message to Beverly regarding just how unfunny her little prank is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie, for his part, can't stop laughing at the huge misshapen text on his own sweater—</span>
  <em>
    <span>DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL</span>
  </em>
  <span>—that is sewn below a cartoon picture of Santa Clause wearing a jockstrap and a ballgag. He cracks up so hard he nearly cries, which sets Eddie off in a cycle that has them gasping for over twenty minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The picture they take together is so wonderful that Richie not only sends it to the group chat but also opts to print it out, digging for a frame in the basement just so he can hang it in the upstairs hall, across from Jim Carrey's strange painting. Eddie doesn't say anything, but Richie catches him glancing at themselves through the glass with a poorly hidden smile every time they walk by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie might still be unbearably horny at random intervals and he might still be concerned for the fragility he feels on a regular basis, and Eddie might still be heading back to New York in no time at all, but none of that matters, nor will it last. Eddie will always be with Richie in Chicago now—in videos and photos, on the phone and in Richie's memory, in his heart—until the next time he comes to visit. He knows it won't be long. And hopefully, by then, his presence will be permanent. Hopefully, by then, everything will have well and truly fallen into place.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he's looking forward to it.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, there it is! I really hope you enjoy the final part to this extra little story. I know I had a nice time writing fluff for them. :) I'm feeling a bit down and unmotivated lately, but I do hope to continue to write some more for these two. I say this all the time but I do still have some other wips that I need to actually work on and hopefully finish, plus other oneshots in this universe that I haven't yet started.</p><p>I know that some of the gifts mentioned in this chapter probably did not exist in 2016, but they're what I wanted so I used my creative license. lol. </p><p>The song they sang was, of course, The Boys Are Back In Town by Thin Lizzy. </p><p>ANYWAY. I hope you had fun reading this little reddie holiday/slice of life thing. Let me know what you think, please! It means a lot. ♥ I'll try to work on something else soon. (sorry for mistakes)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*if you see this work posted twice, one is deleted because i was having troubles with my internet while trying to publish. sorry. it's really annoying me right now, so i hope that goes away. sorry. :/</p><p>Okay, so I was going to post this on the 29th (because that's my birthday) but I finished editing part 1 of this so I figured I'd just post it now. And yes I wrote a Christmas fic in May. I don't know why.</p><p>So, yeah, this is the next part of All The Very Best of Us (String Ourselves Up For Love), just a simple fluffy continuation of reddie adventures in this series (which I have decided to name The Courage to Start Over, based on the Fitzgerald quote Bill mentioned in one of the chapters of the main fic). I have a few of these planned but only one (this) written right now, so I hope you enjoy! All of the fics in this series will basically just be fluff because it's what they deserve after everything and what we deserve, too. I also have some other fics planned, not in this universe, that I haven't made much progress on since I'm just... lazy. But I switch back and forth, depending on what i feel like doing, so whatever comes next is a surprise to all of us. lol.</p><p>Also, this originally wasn't going to have smut but then it just sort of happened, so I apologize for subjecting you to that once more. lolol. I also apologize for any errors. I've looked this over so many times and just can't anymore.</p><p>So, yeah! If you liked this chapter, please feel free to let me know! I hope it's just a feel-good sort of thing for everyone and I'd love to see your feedback. Thank you for reading my fics. It means a lot! ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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